Taking Life For Granted

Back and to the Left

2009-10-18T17:29:00.003+01:00

I have finally accepted that Sid has failed to find a publisher for my blog (as apparently "writers writing about writers writing is self-indulgence on an obscene level" - Harper Collins) and have reopened the page so people can consume it for free, which seems to be the standard now anyway. All art will become a hobby.

This is the original first draft that poured out of me moments after the events described unfolded, when I was still deeply affected, often lying behind the sofa pressed up against the wall with the water damage. I did rewrite the blog for submission, but clearly not to a high enough degree. Remember, the posts appear in reverse order. Obviously.

My new blog is at www.daniel-patterson.blogspot.com See you there.

Thanks for reading this blog...

2009-01-06T18:36:00.003Z

Sid thinks that we should submit it as a novel so I'm trying to rewrite it to make it entertaining. I'll close the blog in a few weeks to non-subscribers while we collect rejections.

I have to go, I have a late shift at Bid TV. For now, so long.

The End

2008-12-26T04:40:00.002Z

I was up into the opening hours of Christmas Day after everyone else, involuntarily glancing every few minutes at the fireplace below the hanging stockings. It isn’t even a real fireplace and there is no chimney, so I’m not sure what my eyes were hoping to catch.

My belief in the existence of Father Christmas was rudely shattered one year when my mother burst into my bedroom at one am, throwing my presents onto the foot of my bed and saying ‘There’s no point in pretending anymore, is there?’ Both my siblings are older than me and I suppose my mum and dad had just become tired of the whole ordeal. Although, to be fair, I was thirteen.

Last night I was holding a microphone plugged into my laptop and attempting to record an audiobook version of my late novel with the intention of selling it on iTunes, with or without Harper Collins’ backing. I was, of course, also drinking whisky and I remember little of the process after chapter three. Listening back to it this morning, wearing a garish, hot, itchy jumper my sister Sharon gave me, I am disappointed with the results. My flat monotone becomes more erratic as the story progresses until I am babbling incoherently. It is, frankly, shit. I will send the novel to a professional next week - David Attenborough, perhaps - and try to drum up some interest.

We are at Sharon’s for Christmas. She has the biggest house in the family because her ex-husband possesses a successful company and enough guilt to pay handsomely for Sharon and their kids’ lifestyles without having to see them. Sharon is constantly elated because she never liked men very much but wanted kids and security and now she has both without the man. She certainly doesn’t need a new kitchen from me.

Brian, of course, showed up alone. He claims that he has several women he sees casually, and we all gleefully make fun of him whenever he says this. It is a rare bonding exercise for the family – albeit at the exclusion of one of us - and we seize the opportunity frequently. In fact, all our joyful moments are at the expense of one of us; Sharon’s suspected borderline lesbianism, my father’s habit of marrying any woman who shows an interest in him, my little sci-fi nonsense novel. To be honest, I believe they cross the line with me, and it is genuinely hurtful.

My father has brought a new flame along. She is disappointingly nice. Somehow it seems wrong that he is walking around happy when my mother is dead. But it makes things easier to have someone we can like. We all tell her they’ll be married in a few months if she’s not careful. This makes her uncomfortable.

I tell Cheryl that she should have one of my sister’s cigarettes. A couple of weeks ago Cheryl smoked her first cigarette for three years on a night out with friends. At first I was annoyed but after realizing that it might be nice to have a few bonus years of bachelorhood at the end of my life, I have been encouraging her to take up the habit again. Brian, Sharon and I are already involved in a three-way sibling death-race featuring food, cigarettes and alcohol, but there’s always room for late entries.

“I don’t want one,” she hisses.

“Spoil sport,” I say.

Sharon’s dinner is uncharacteristically delicious and I gorge myself on sausages and turkey and stuffing and potatoes and my annual Brussels sprout.

Afterwards I unpack my Wii and the family takes turns to play the bowling game. My father’s girlfriend lets her controller slip out of her hand as she bowls and it shatters on the TV screen. She is mortified and secretly I am pleased to have a foothold of some kind over her. My five year-old nephew, George, has a supernatural ability at the game and embarrasses us all.

Afterwards, the kids fight in the front room over their new toys and the adults sit in the living room, half-watching a film and slowly digesting the meal but constantly topping ourselves up with chocolate.

Brian sits slightly apart from us and says very little. I realize that I will never understand anything about him and I accept it.

Sharon buzzes around, topping up drinks and offering snacks around and filling all the conversational lags that threaten to become silences.

My father seems happier than I can remember him in many years, and he surprises me by quietly saying to me, “It’s a bit violent your novel, isn’t it?”

“It is a bit, yeah,” I say.

“Makes sense at the end, though."

“Good,” I say. “Thanks.”

And then I go to the toilet and splash water on my face and realize that I am genuinely emotional for the first time since I saw Edward Scissorhands.

Later, in the guest bedroom, Cheryl lies on the bed, half-drunk and exhausted. I slowly empty my pockets onto a chest of drawers.

“When are you next working?” Cheryl asks me.

“New Year’s Day. Six am early shift.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Although if I’m still drunk I find the first half of the shift goes a lot quicker.”

“I’m so glad I have the holidays off this year,” she says. “Saturday can we just stay at home all day and lie on the couch?”

“Maybe. Sid texted though. I might be having my first rehearsal with Down Wit’ It that day.”

“Oh. Fun.”

“Yeah.” I sit on the bed and pull my jeans off and then suddenly lose all the energy required to do anything more.

“Are you okay?” Cheryl says.

“Yeah,” I say. I sit and stare at the wall for a long time.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’ve just hit middle age,” I say. “Right then. Thirty seconds ago. I thought it was when my back went out last year but no. This is it. This moment of realisation.”

“What realisation?” Cheryl says. I can hear her popping the cap off some kind of cream she smears on her face.

“It’s too pathetic to talk about, really. I just… I always wanted to be different. I know everyone does but I did too, and I kind of thought that I was different, that I would actually be one of the people who did something interesting. And then I went and did all the ordinary things anyway. I actually got married. I mean, how boring, how average, can you get? I’m a thirty-two year-old man, married, who doesn’t own a house, who has to work for a living.

“I thought that getting a novel published would validate everything in my life. That it would excuse my bad behavior – past, present and future – and that everyone would look at me in a different light. But it hasn’t changed a thing. Maybe if I had sold a million copies but not…three hundred or whatever it was.”

“That can’t change who you are, what you do,” Cheryl says to my back. “Only being a better person can make you feel better about yourself.”

“I know. I just…thought I’d feel fulfilled, maybe. That I would have achieved my life’s goal and could live the rest of my life satisfied somehow. But it never stops. There’s no…completeness. Life just plods on in its mundane routine.”

Cheryl puts her hand on my back. “The things that make you happy are always closer to home. The most basic human needs and urges. The cycle of life. If you want to give your life meaning then maybe now’s the time for us to start trying to have a baby. A little son or daughter to pass everything on to and pour your life into.”

“I’m not sure if I’m that empty yet,” I say.

“It would make me happy. To move back to America and start a family near my parents. If you can never be content, if you’re going to be miserable no matter what then at least give me the opportunity to be happy.”

I sigh and lie down next to her. “Okay. Throw your Pills away, then.”

“So romantic.”

I kiss her, and then, for better or worse, I give in to her again.

Clean Break...

2008-12-22T01:01:00.002Z

Firing Sid is largely a symbolic gesture. With agents, as with girlfriends, it’s probably better to find a new one before getting rid of the old, but (as with girlfriends) this is easier said than done. But as we approach the beginning of a new year, I’m all about clean breaks and fresh possibilities. It is the only way I have managed to keep remotely upbeat in the last week.

The simple truth is that Sid is no longer effective in any business capacity, and he will probably interpret the termination of our professional relationship as the firing of him as a friend. Which is, of course, part of the problem. This is the first time I’ve had to sack anyone since I got rid of the Colombian drummer of my old rock band. He was the most popular member but he couldn’t play in time. But as Cheryl says, Sid’s in a ‘gots-to-go situation’.

He’s already in the pub when I arrive, drinking with two long-haired surly seventeen year-olds in trench coats. He introduces them as Down Wit’ It, an urban drum and bass duo. They stare menacingly at me and I don’t bother trying to shake their hands. I buy Sid a beer but ignore them. Sid gives them some pound coins and they sulk off to the pool tables.

“I’m excited about this,” Sid tells me. “They’re good kids. Very talented. Could be huge.”

“You’re definitely moving into the music business then?”

“Why not?” Sid says. “Don’t worry about your career, though. I won’t let them overshadow our relationship.”

“Sid, I don’t have a career.”

“You need to diversify,” he tells me. “Fingers in pies. You could join Down Wit’ It and be a novelist and a musician.”

“I'm not that desperate," I say. "What do you know about drum and bass anyway? Do you actually like their music?”

“I haven’t heard them yet, I must admit. But it all sounds the same, that stuff, doesn’t it? It’s all about aesthetics and they’ve got It, haven’t they? The X Factor. Look at them.”

I watch the pale spotty kids playing in silence and missing balls and find myself nodding my head. Then I try to summon a grave, troubled expression in an attempt to encourage him towards asking me what’s wrong, at which point I would sigh and look down at my hands until he coaxes it out of me. But he is totally oblivious of my efforts.

“Here,” he says. “I’ve been seeing a girl from the Singles Club for a few weeks now. Things are going really well.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. Trouble is… It’s been so long that I’ve kind of forgotten how to, you know, make the move.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I get nervous and never seem to find the right moment to kiss her. So we just end up shaking hands at her door every night. She’s sweet and I don’t want to blow it.”

“Hmm. I never really had that problem. In fact, I was always the opposite. I’d lose patience and pounce on them far too early and at completely the wrong time. Like when they were trying to hold the biting point in traffic half way up Primrose Hill Road or relaxing with a mouthful of Marmite on toast.”

“I don’t want to scare her away.”

“Well what’s the problem? Does she like you?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Then take a risk. If you do it nicely then she’ll either respond or reject you. If the latter, you say goodnight and see her again and try again. You’ve already signaled your intentions and it makes it harder for her to turn you down each time. But you’ve got to at least try.”

“Yeah…” he says. “I guess.”

I don’t know why people ask me for advice because they never heed it.

“So, any new developments?” I ask, giving him one final chance of saving his ‘job’.

“Yep.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Got Down Wit’ It a gig at the Black Swan a week from Tuesday. Apparently there’s a pretty good PA setup and the stage is…”

“I meant with me for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh. Not yet. Still sending stuff out, crossing my fingers. A lot of publishers aren’t interested in sci-fi at the moment.”

“It’s not sci-fi though, is it? The new stuff is contemporary fiction. Why are you telling them sci-fi?”

“I haven’t been sending out the new stuff,” he says. “I thought Clear History made more sense.”

“No, that makes complete nonsense seeing as Clear History has already been released and my new novel is what we’re trying to sell them.”

“Oh,” Sid says. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“How can you…” I stop and take a deep breath. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’ve made my job a lot easier.”

He nods vacantly, sipping his beer.

“Sid, I think we need to end our professional relationship.”

“We do?”

“Look, we had a go and we got a book published which is great, of course. But I think we both need a fresh start, a new perspective. I want to go to the next level and I feel like I need a new source of inspiration. You know?”

“You’re going to find a new agent?” he says with a breaking voice.

“We haven’t met our targets,” I tell him. “You’re not exactly…the easiest agent to work with.”

“But I just sent it to Bilbo Hewlins. He wanted to read it, remember?”

“See, you’re not listening to me. I’m not writing a follow-up to Clear History anymore, am I? Remember? I’m doing something else. The thought of trying to find an agent again doesn’t fill me with joy, and I appreciate you taking me on in the first place but we’ve stalled. We’ve reached the end of our journey together.”

Sid takes a soothing gulp of beer. “I can’t believe this,” he says.

“It’s not the end of the world,” I say. “In fact, nothing will really change. You can stop going through the motions of pretending to find me a new deal.”

A nasty look has come over Sid’s face. “You blame me for the book not selling.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You know, you’re not as talented as you think. You’re not some great author. You’re a spoiled brat.”

“Sid, don’t do this.”

He leans forward, pointing. “You’re the one who doesn’t listen. Not to me, not to your editor or your publicists or anyone who tried to help you.”

“That’s not true…”

“You’re not going to find anyone else to represent you. I was the only one willing to take a chance. No one else wanted to deal with you. Because you’re a whiny, selfish, precious hack.”

“You really think that?”

“If you’d toed the line and kept quiet and blended in you could have had a long life at Harper Collins.”

“If you’d accepted a two book contract then we’d still be there you fuckwit,” I shout.

“Then you’d be having to write another sci-fi novel and you’d be bitching and moaning about it and they’d drop you anyway you cock.”

We’re both suddenly standing in the pub. “Let’s not fight,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he says. “I’ve got other talent now. I don’t need you. These boys are my future. They’ve got drive and commitment and there’s a bond between us that we never had.”

He joins them at the pool table across the pub, telling them something, and I distinctly see one of them mouth ‘Piss off’ at him.

The Colombian drummer took the news better.

"You Blew It..."

2008-12-16T23:45:00.002Z

After waking up from a sweaty mid-afternoon dream involving Pauline, Mavis and napalm, I leave the flat while still half-asleep and take the tube to Hammersmith where I sit across the street from Harper Collins, getting up from the concrete wall every ten minutes or so to walk off some of the cold.

Mavis leaves the building around four o’clock, throwing a large scarf around herself like a cape, but I ignore her.

At five, a man who I think is Jason - one of the executives or at least someone high up – emerges and I run across the street and accost him before he can get to the staff car park.

“Jason,” I say, and he looks up, startled. I can’t think of anything else to say so we stare at each other until he recognises me.

“Christopher?”

I nod.

“You look freezing. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

I nod again, shivering. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just…no one’s talking to me and I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do.”

The first patches of red are already forming on Jason’s face. Our breath plumes out of our mouths and noses like smoke machines. “This isn’t the most convenient time or place to talk, Christopher. Let’s arrange something through the proper channels.”

“No, because nothing will happen. Chris doesn’t return my calls or emails.”

“I’m sure he’s very busy.”

“It’s been months since we spoke.”

His face twitches. “Well, that’s not acceptable.”

He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and pushes a few buttons and holds it to his ear. “Chris, are you busy right now? I have Christopher Hardy with me outside. Can you meet us in the Starbucks? We’ll find out, won’t we? Very good.”

He hangs up.

“Let’s get a coffee,” he says.

I drink my hot chocolate quickly even though it is scolding hot and try to stop my hands shaking. Jason is clearly disturbed by my appearance but it is hard for me to care at the moment. He asks after my family and my plans for Christmas until Chris arrives.

A Cappuccino is already waiting for him on the table. “I remembered what you like,” I tell him as he sits down.

“Thanks,” he says without enthusiasm.

“Christopher was waiting for me outside,” Jason says. “He tells me that he’s having difficulty contacting you.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you,” Chris says. “You know how it is.”

“Not really,” I say. “I just wanted some feedback.” I know that I look and sound pathetic but my spirit is broken.

“I haven’t heard anything from higher up so I’ve got nothing to tell you,” Chris says. “Sorry.” He looks to Jason.

Jason clears his throat. “It’s my understanding that you’re no longer working on a follow-up to Clear History. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I think that’s really what we were looking for from you. But at any rate, sales, unfortunately, haven’t met any of the targets we set.”

“No one was behind it,” I whine, unable to summon any dignity. “There was no support.”

“I hear your frustration,” Jason says. “But I can assure you that we were behind you.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Christopher, we signed you because we wanted to publish you and sell your book. We took a chance on you and it didn’t pay off. But you have to accept some responsibility for that. You haven’t been the easiest author we’ve ever had to work with.”

Chris says nothing. He stares at his coffee.

“I wanted it to be a success,” I say.

“Of course you did,” Jason says. “We all wanted it to succeed. But not everything can."

“At least put out a paperback.”

“There’s no demand. Look, if it’s any consolation, I thought it was good work. A really interesting novel. I wish more people could have got to read it.”

“If you like it then you could take another chance on me.”

Jason smiles sympathetically. “It’s not my money I’m playing with, Christopher. We have directors, shareholders.”

“But… I feel like what I’m working on is something really special. Yes, it’s not the follow-up you asked for but forget that, let’s start again. It’s… I really think it could be great.”

I realise I’m almost pleading but I can’t help it. I turn to Chris. “I’ve sent you about five chapters now and you haven’t got back to me. If you just read them I know you’d like it. I’m sure of it.”

“Have you read them?” Jason asks him.

“I have,” Chris says. “I’m afraid we just didn’t see anything in them.” He talks to Jason and won’t look at me.

“You read them?” I say. “You swear to me that you’ve looked at them and that you gave a fair evaluation?”

He glances at me and nods.

“Tell me what it’s about. Tell me what happens.”

“Sandy read them thoroughly,” Chris says, addressing Jason again. “I read a little and I agreed with her.”

“Sandy is your assistant?” Jason says.

Chris nods.

“And you trust her opinion?”

“Implicitly.”

Jason looks at me. “I’m sorry, Christopher. It sounds as though we’ve reached the end of our journey together.”

“No, wait,” I say. “I want someone else to look at it. I want another editor to read it. I know that what I’m doing is good.”

“I know it’s tough, Christopher,” Jason says. “But I think you should look at taking it to other houses. A fresh start, new eyes, a new perspective. Let your agent loose.”

“No, please,” I say. “I’ll do better this time. I’ll do what Chris says, I’ll put the work in. Don’t close the door on me just yet. I know I can do something great.”

I am whining at an embarrassing volume and the rest of the patrons are looking over.

“This is painful,” Chris says. “Be a man, Christopher. You blew it.” He stands up and waits for Jason to do the same.

I stare at the table as Jason rises and buttons his coat. “I wish things could have been different,” he says, and they leave.

I sit alone in the coffee shop for awhile until I notice a young couple waiting for the table and I force a smile and move out of their way and they thank me and I leave the coffee shop and stand outside in the cold for a long time, just looking around and waiting for my brain to make some kind of decision as to where I should go and what I should do.

Book Signing...

2008-12-12T23:05:00.002Z

I have organised a book signing two months after my novel’s release primarily for my own amusement. On a whim I called my home town Dartford’s only local bookshop and the owner, Graham, said Yes immediately. I could almost hear him shrugging over the phone.

“I’m not expecting a great deal of people,” I warned him.

“I shouldn’t hire extra security then?” he said. I like him.

When I arrive Graham is sitting behind the till reading a huge hard backed account of the Sandinista National Liberation Front.

“What do you do for fun?” I say by way of introduction.

He lowers the tome. He is about fifty and wearing glasses and a cardigan, perhaps as a comment on the stereotypes of bookshop owners. Or perhaps because stereotypes exist for a reason. “Mr. Hardy, I presume,” he says.

“Indeed.” We shake hands. I glance around his tiny, empty shop. “How’s business?”

He just laughs.

I smile and look round again. He has set up a table at the far end of the room. Next to it is a blackboard on which he has actually written, exactly to my specification, Christopher Hardy - King of Sci-Fi’s Christmas Signing Spectacular in shaky handwriting.

“Just set yourself up over there and I’ll wait for the masses to begin filling my till,” he says.

“Right.” I put my bag under the table and take my jacket off, revealing my ‘King of Sci-Fi’ shirt. I sit down and finger the felt-tip pen on the otherwise bare surface. “Where are the books?”

He looks up from the counter. “Which books are you referring to?”

“My books. Clear History.”

“I don’t have any,” he says. “I assumed you were bringing them. We usually just buy the copies the author sells, and a few more for stock.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Oh indeed,” he says.

I lean back in my chair and laugh, suddenly giddy with the sheer absurdity of the event.

“There appears to have been a lack of communication,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, still laughing. “Really. No one will come.”

He smiles and shakes his head. He nods towards a door marked ‘Staff Only.’ “Make us a cup of tea then, will you?”

“Sure,” I say, wiping a tear from my cheek.

The door opens onto a small kitchen area and a toilet. I make the tea, dancing to a song in my head.

When I come out there are two young girls in the shop. Graham takes his tea. “Your first fans,” he says.

I laugh again. “Yeah, right.”

The girls hear me and turn round. They giggle and take the few steps required to cross the shop.

“Hi,” one of them says.

“I looove your book,” the other one says.

“Shut up,” I say, stunned.

Their smiles fade.

“I mean…that’s great,” I say. They are even prettier than the girls who asked James Hardy for his signature and this pleases me. “Wait, I should be sitting at the table.”

They follow me over and I sit down. We look at each other, smiling. No one is sure what to do.

Eventually one of them says, “Will you sign a book for us, then?”

“I’d love to, but I don’t have any.”

They look at each other. “We came from London.”

“Hold on.”

I ask Graham to call the local W H Smiths. He does so with a bewildered expression.

“Smith’s has copies,” I tell the girls. “It’s just down the road.”

They leave the shop in a state of confusion and almost immediately a huge guy in a leather jacket holding a motorcycle helmet comes in and approaches me.

“Good to meet you,” he says. “Big fan.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little scared. “Look, I’m afraid we’ve…sold out of copies already, but…”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ve already got one. I want you to sign something else.”

He pulls his jacket off and then his shirt. His torso and arms are covered in tattoos.

“Christ,” I say.

“I love my tattoos,” he says.

“Looks like it. That’s…great.”

“I’ve got a space here,” he says, pointing to a fleshy area over his left nipple. “Sign it and then I’m straight down the parlour to get it inked.”

“Wow,” I say. I stand up and move warily around the table. “What’s that one?” I say, squinting at a large amateurish scrawl on his shoulder.

“‘The Ebonic Plague,’” he says cheerfully. “That was the name of my Nazi punk band in my misspent youth.”

“Wow,” I say again. “That sounds…fun.”

“It was okay,” he says modestly. “We put out one single; ‘Rosa Parks Should Have Stood The Fuck Up.’ It didn’t do that well.”

“That’s a shame,” I say, gingerly stretching out his moist skin with trembling hands and marking it with my childish signature.

I step back, awaiting judgement. He looks at it for a long time and my heartbeat doubles. Eventually he looks up. “That’s brilliant,” he says with genuine emotion.

I smile with relief. “Excellent.”

“Quick photo,” he says. He holds his mobile phone out and crushes me against his flesh. I smile the best I can. He checks it, and again appears delighted.

When he has left, I sit at the table and recover my composure. “Is he a regular?” I ask Graham.

The two girls return with copies and I sign them and they take photos and I am slightly less uncomfortable with the whole process than I feared I might be.

Graham is less happy. “Those are sales I’m losing out on,” he says.

“Don’t worry, no one else will come,” I assure him, but only ten minutes later a middle-aged woman comes in and flirts for awhile and goes off to Smiths to buy the remaining three copies for Christmas presents.

“This is silly,” Graham says.

“I know.”

I call Pauline at Harper Collins. “How quickly can you get copies of my book to Dartford?”

A courier is dispatched from the warehouse. Two groups of young men come in and I ask them to return in two hours but they don’t have time, and they run off to another nearby chain for copies, and when I sign them thirty minutes later, Graham is furious.

More people arrive and I do photographs but they leave empty-handed.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Graham.

The courier finally arrives and the tension is relieved a little and he stacks forty copies of my book on the table and Graham signs for them and he leaves.

I sit behind the table for the rest of the afternoon. No one else comes in. The silence, at times, is almost unbearable.

I leave Graham in his shop at seven pm, staring forlornly at the stack of books. I can’t think of much to say.

Free Counter

Press Clippings...

2008-12-09T00:18:00.003Z

Harper Collins has sent me a package with all the press clippings surrounding the release of my novel, Clear History. I was expecting a motorcycle courier, but the folder arrived instead with the rest of the Royal Mail correspondence in a single A4-sized envelope.

I pick it up between thumb and forefinger and flap it, as though it might trigger some expansion mechanism. It doesn’t. It remains depressingly thin and light.

I spread out the contents on the bedroom floor and pick through the skeletal remains of my writing career. “How could people have bought the thing if no one knew it existed?” I ask Cheryl.

“They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” she says with a sympathetic look.

“Wankers,” I say.

The few national newspaper articles are brief mentions of the book’s existence, either in release round-ups or within reviews of other books, the two relevant words diligently highlighted in luminous yellow marker pen. Most of the actual reviews are short, lukewarm, and from local papers around the UK. Several are nothing to do with me at all, just coincidental uses of the phrase ‘clear history.’

On one clipping, presumably included on a particularly desperate day, someone has attempted to get away with marking the words Clear and History in a paragraph, despite the fact that the words are used in separate sentences in an article about fish tank maintenance.

The print-outs from sci-fi websites are generally longer and more positive, and I linger over them, nodding my head at the praise and ignoring the criticism.

One blogger seemed obsessed with the novel, making almost daily posts in between other entries about Star Trek and The Matrix. Over time he went deeper into his analysis of the themes and morality of my book, penning whole articles on subtexts I had never intended (probably created in my editor’s revisions), creating graphs detailing the complex relationships within the story and supplying his wishes for plot developments in subsequent novels in the projected series. Even he, though, perhaps through a lack of response from anybody at all, appeared to have lost interest after a few weeks, and after an accurate and thorough investigation of my main influences (including, cheekily, Scotch) he never mentioned it again.

I quietly stack the papers together and slide them back into the envelope. “That’s that, then.”

“Not necessarily,” Cheryl says.

“No, not necessarily. But, barring a miracle, almost certainly.”

“I’ve got a little surprise for you,” she says, pulling a copy of Time Out from her bag.

I watch her in silence, not allowing myself to become excited, knowing how disappointing her surprises usually turn out to be. She opens the magazine and hands it to me. The article is entitled ‘The Fifty Best Books You Didn’t Buy This Year (but should have).’

It takes me awhile to find any pertinent information because she hasn’t highlighted anything in yellow. But, near the bottom of the page at number forty-six is Clear History by Christopher Hardy. ‘Stylish, brutal, nightmare vision of the near-future,’ it says.

“I know it’s not huge,” Cheryl says, “but it could be the beginning of a re-examination or something. It might be one of those cult things that get noticed over time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, smiling.

“And look, it’s written by loads of people so it’s not just one person’s opinion.”

“It might get on a few lists,” I say. “And then people will take notice.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you.”

She throws her arms around me and we lie on the floor and cuddle. This, combined with the fact that it is almost dinner when I can start drinking openly, gives me a rare moment of genuine happiness. I kiss Cheryl on her forehead and my stomach is taut with love. She looks beautiful.

I almost tell her that I am happy and that I will never forget this moment, but I hold back. I don’t like to say nice things to her because if I ever leave her then it will just have created more memories for her to feel bitter about. Better for her to think I didn’t care that much than for her to be sitting alone in a dark room for months on end, saying ‘He must have still loved me when he said that…’

Mavis finally replies to an email from days ago:

Christopher, I’m sorry that Chris is not responding to your emails, but I’m afraid I do not have time to track him down personally. I’m sure he is as busy as I am and will get back to you in due course.

Thank you for sending me the chapters of your new novel. Unfortunately, I am not trained to give feedback on an author’s work, and have not read them.

Pauline says to say the same.

Holden Caulfield Needs a Slap...

2008-12-04T23:46:00.002Z

I’m walking along Berwick Street again, ostensibly in search of good bargain records and pretending to myself that I’m not looking for James Hardy. Since tricking one of the Harper publicity crones into giving me his number, I have left a humiliatingly large number of messages on his mobile’s answer phone, but he hasn’t returned my calls.

I have kept alive the slim possibility that my messages have cut out each time at the exact moment that I am reciting my own phone number, leaving him unable to contact me, frustrated and desperate to go out again and perhaps let me ride on his coattails of success for a time.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It is Linda, the ex-girlfriend who I met for lunch a few weeks ago, calling me for the twentieth time. I reject it, as I have done each time. Despite this, she refuses to take the hint and keeps calling. It is embarrassing for us both.

As I get to Oxford Street I see a poster for my novel on an alley wall. It has somehow survived being torn down, graffitied or plastered-over with another advert and it looks great. I try to imagine how the poster would make me feel if I had never heard of Clear History. I imagine noticing it, moving closer to take it in, then running to the nearest bookshop to make a purchase. It seems like the natural reaction.

None of the passers-by even glance at it. Eventually I pick out a man my age. “Excuse me.”

He stops and frowns.

“Have you seen this poster?” I say, pointing at it.

“No.”

“What do you think of it?”

He shrugs and frowns again. “I don’t know.” He walks away.

“Don’t you want to buy it?” I shout after him.

He doesn’t look back. Unperturbed, I slip back into the role of the newly-smitten consumer and make my way to Borders.

It is a quiet weekday afternoon. I take the escalator to the third floor and bravely stride into the sci-fi/fantasy section as though it is a normal thing to do.

My book isn’t there. I check several times but it is nowhere to be seen. The possibility that it has sold out suddenly excites me and this gives me the courage to approach the man at the nearest till.

“Excuse me. Have you got Clear History by Christopher Hardy?”

“Let me check.” He taps a few times on his computer keyboard. “Clear...?”

“History.”

He taps again and makes a strange clucking sound with his tongue. “Should have a few in stock.”

“Couldn’t see any.”

“Oh, hang on. We had a couple on the shelf but they sold out on the first day, actually. Looks like the rest of them are still in storage.”

“Where’s…storage?”

“Downstairs. In the basement.”

“So…since the day it was released there haven’t been any copies on the shelf? For the past six weeks?”

“Looks that way.”

He can see my anger coming to a boil and seizes an opportunity to palm me off onto someone else. “Greg,” he shouts across the shop.

A surly-looking teenager who was passing with a trolley full of books stops in his tracks and lumbers towards us, rolling his eyes.

“Greg might be able to dig one out for you,” the till man says, turning away.

Greg stops in front of me. “What?”

“Apparently you’ve got a load of copies of Clear History just sitting downstairs.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Have you?”

“I’ve no idea, mate.”

“Well, do you think you might be able to have a look for me?”

He rolls his eyes again and sighs. “I’m really busy, mate.”

“Apparently they’ve been down there for six weeks, so maybe you could make time?”

“What was it again?”

I give him the title and author and he walks towards, I presume, the lift. But he stops in the sci-fi section. I join him. “It’s not here,” I say. He ignores me and keeps looking. “I’ve looked.”

A minute later, he sighs again. “No, it’s not here.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s downstairs.”

“Look, how badly do you want this book? I’m so fucking sick and tired of going up and down to that fucking basement.”

“I don’t want it myself, I just want copies on the shelf.”

“You what?”

“Listen,” I say, looking round and leaning into him. “I’m Christopher Hardy.”

He looks at me blankly.

“I’m the author.”

“Right.”

“Come on, mate. How are people supposed to buy the book if it’s not on the shelf?”

“There’s no room on the shelf,” he shouts, angrier than I am. “I can’t fit them on.” He stands there, pointing and panting.

“Build some more shelves,” I say.

He opens his mouth again, winding up for an enraged meltdown.

“I’m joking,” I say, my own anger dissipated. “I feel your frustration. I’ll give you ten pounds if you bring up all the copies.”

“Thirty,” he says immediately.

“Thirty? But I won’t make a profit even if they all sell.”

“Thirty,” he says again, folding his arms and smiling smugly.

“Fine,” I say, shaking my head and handing him the cash. “But I’ll be back to check.”

I run out of the shop, a new hope rising that sales are low only because the copies are all hidden in storage rooms around the country. All I have to do is tour the UK, personally visit every bookshop and give them thirty pounds.

But this concept is shattered in the next shop along, where two copies of my book are on display, squeezed onto a shelf with their spines showing.

I approach the manager. “Hi. I’m Christopher Hardy. Would you like me to sign copies of my book?”

“Which book is that?” she says.

I lead her to the shelf and slide out the copies.

“Erm… I don’t think it will make much difference,” she says. “Thanks anyway.”

Another man asks her a question and she moves away. I leave my books with the covers facing outwards, blocking others.

Outside, I look through the shop window and see the manager putting them back.

Back at home I lie on my sofa in the living room, staring up at the framed Clear History poster on the wall, imagining how good it would have looked as a giant billboard on Earl’s Court Road.

You See Me In Whatever Light That You Choose...

2008-11-29T20:57:00.002Z

Sid, my agent, calls me from his office at seven am. “Christopher!” he announces cheerfully.

“This better be good,” I mumble, my brain sending out surveillance probes to assess the extent of my hangover.

“Oh, is it early again?” he says. “Sorry mate, don’t mean to keep waking you up.”

“Why are you always at work so early anyway?”

“Well, I share hot water with the other flats in my building and a couple of times it’s run out in the middle of my shower so I’ve started getting up before anyone else to beat them to it. Unfortunately a few of them are road sweepers. So I’m up at four every day now.”

“Jesus. No more nights out then? You must be going to bed at nine.”

“Nah. The good news is I’m out of the office at one every day and I just sleep in the afternoon. The other good news is that I get to see all the filthy foreign cleaners. I tell you, there’re some beautiful, sad-looking Latino women knocking about before the sun comes up. There’s one on my industrial estate with a waist the size of a can of Pringles and tits like Zeppelins but she looks painfully damaged. Seems like easy pickings except every time I drive past her there’s always some older man shouting and threatening to hit her. Surely I can offer her a better life than that?”

“So you’d let her give up the job?”

“Oh, I see. No. No, I wouldn’t. Maybe I could stop the threats at least.”

“What the fuck does he want?” Cheryl hisses from next to me.

“Yes, what the fuck do you want?”

“Let’s do a meeting. I’ll be round at noon.”

He sits on the couch while I make him a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. Cheryl hides in the bedroom. Sid changes the channel to QVC and I try not to take it as some kind of mockery.

I hand him his sandwich and he points at Julia Roberts selling Diamonique. “Is this stuff actually any good?”

“I’m not a jewellery expert, Sid. I don’t know.”

“Huh.” He leans forward, scrutinising the merchandise.

“So what’s this meeting about? Any good news for me?”

“Maybe. You mentioned you’d written your first song in ages?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve found someone who wants to record it.”

“Who?”

“Some kid with a studio in his flat.”

“So this is a change of career? You’ve given up on me as a writer?”

“Just keeping our options open, Christopher.”

“I’m too old, Sid. I’ve done the band thing. No one wants to hear what a thirty-two year old man has to say.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

“Jesus. You’re not supposed to agree.”

“I’m not, I’m just telling you what I thought you wanted to hear. I’m all about an easy life.”

“What about my second novel? Have you been shopping me around? Any feedback, and leads?”

“I’m trying, Christopher,” Sid says, blowing on the steaming sandwich. “But that part of things isn’t really my strong suit, to be honest.”

“But… That’s what an agent does, for Christ’s sake. What have you been doing? What is your strong suit?”

“Just being supportive. Having a laugh. Going out for drinks. Just being a mate.”

“No, that is a mate. That’s what my friends do. My agent is supposed to fulfil certain other functions.”

Sid shakes his head, his mouth full of hot cheese. “No one really needs an agent. It’s just perceived that you do. So you do need one, I suppose, but only because that’s the perception.”

“What?”

“There’s nothing an agent can do that you can’t. It’s just an unofficial rule that you have to have one.”

“Sid, I’m pretty sure that’s just you. I think other agents are actually out there working for their clients, selling their work.”

He looks at me blankly, slowly munching his lunch. “Trust me,” he says finally. He finishes and puts the plate down. “Right, I’ll take a nap and then we’ll go round this bloke’s house. Can I use the bedroom?”

“Not really. Cheryl’s in there…working.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. As long as I’m on a bed I can sleep through anything.”

“Why don’t I see if she can take a break?”

So Cheryl and I sit in the living room while Sid snores in our bedroom.

“He’s on my side of the bed,” Cheryl says through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I say for the seventh time. It is almost ten minutes before it occurs to either of us that we are still watching QVC.

Two hours later, Sid wakes up and we go to a stranger’s house where I record all the instruments in one take and a friend makes a video that causes mild brain damage.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxSRChS793U

"Atypical Selection..."

2008-11-24T17:06:00.002Z

I’m hung-over because last night I was up into the mid-morning hours struggling with the follow up to Clear History. I pace the living room ranting at Cheryl because she is locked into her laptop and is therefore here but not here.

“They’ve got me over a barrel. They’re playing me like a puppet. I really want to just say ‘Fuck them’ and write what I want but they’re dangling this second book contract over my head and I’m jumping for it like a fat kid for cake and it’s embarrassing. It’s just such a horrible torturous process fighting to put a few hundred words a day down because my heart’s not in it and I haven’t got any ideas and everything’s horrible. But it’s the only chance I have of getting a new contract so I have to show them something definitive soon and it has to be good and…”

“Christopher,” Cheryl says, surprising me by looking up from the computer. She summons a sheepish, compassionate look. “I don’t think they’re going to offer you a second contract.”

I stop pacing because as soon as the words have left her lips the absolute truth of them hits me like a wrecking ball and I slump bonelessly into my armchair. All the breath has gone from my lungs and it takes an immense effort to gasp, “Oh God.”

“Look, what do I know?” Cheryl says but I don’t listen and suddenly I realise I need to breathe because my vision is greying.

And then the shock is replaced by a euphoric sense of relief and freedom as now only one logical path is open to me and the nightmare that is piled up on my desk has become obsolete and irrelevant.

I stop short of burning all my work in a satisfying ritualistic cleansing as even I have enough foresight to realise the possibility of one day regretting it. Instead I pile up all my notes and chapters into a red folder that is tearing at the edges and put that in a box in my bedroom wardrobe. Then I pull out a green one and spread the papers within across my bedroom floor.

Three hours later I compose an email to my editor, Chris:

You haven’t been responding to my emails but I know you’re still alive because I saw you purchasing unusual fruit juices in a health food shop in Sloane Square on Saturday. I wasn’t in the shop so I cannot be specific about which fruits you chose, but a brief glance at their website shows all the juices to be of an atypical selection.

I have chosen to cease jumping through hoops in a desperate attempt to gain a contract for a second novel. It is not that I am ungrateful for the opportunity of the first or ignorant of the reasoning behind a sequel and perhaps a series. It is simply that my heart is not in it and therefore the quality of writing is insufficient.

Thus it is my intention to win a new contract on the merits of an entirely new work. (I will not use the word Thus in it). I am attaching the first draft of a sample chapter that I have just dashed off in a joyfully creative burst. It is set in a hostel in Sydney. This is what I want to write. If you see nothing in it, then I will be disappointed but at least I will have tried. Enjoy. I hope.

Recognised On a Beach

We went to the beach in the early afternoon. It was still too cold to do so but there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, so we all pretended it was hot. I sat at the edge of the group.

Bradley obviously had felt his cunt gene kick in again, and was carrying Katie down towards the water. She was kicking and screaming, uselessly hitting at his massive body. Some of us chuckled at the sight, watching him step into the cold water above his knees. Then he threw Katie forwards into the ocean, soaking her shorts and shirt and hair. The group stopped laughing. Immediately, Bradley turned and walked back towards us. Katie splashed at him, wetting his T-shirt, then stood up and followed him, looking down at her clothes.

Bradley reached us and stopped, grinning. Some of the people in the group laughed again. “Nice one,” Rob said.

“You’re mean,” Emma said in a jocular tone. No one said anything seriously. No one wanted to voice their disapproval against anyone who fitted in. No one wanted to draw Bradley’s attention.

Behind him, Katie shuffled up, uncomfortable in her clinging wet clothes, dripping water and sand. She looked down at herself and it was easy to see the anger and embarrassment behind her strained smile.

“Aah, she’s all wet,” Rob patronised her.

“Most of the time, I’ve heard,” I said as an innuendo, fucking hating myself. Katie pulled ineffectively at her shirt which was clinging to the fabric of her white bra.

An uneasy silence fell over the group. Bradley either didn’t pick up on it or chose to ignore it. All the while he had been picking his next victim and I watched in amazement as he told Rhiannon to take her valuables out of her pockets.

She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. “No, come on Bradley. Enough’s enough.”

All the humour had left the situation. Still he persevered. “Look, you’re going in the water,” he told her. “I’m just giving you fair warning. If you take your phone out now, it won’t break. Now that’s fair enough, isn’t it?” He didn’t look round for laughs. Instead he stared at her, smirking, and I wondered what he was getting out of it, what drove him to it. He bent over, reaching out for her.

She looked round for help, almost pleading with him now. Both her boyfriends were there, lying back and forcing smiles. Now would be the time for them to step in, but they didn’t. Maybe they were scared of taking her place in the water. Or maybe because she was fucking both of them, neither felt it was their duty to stand up for her. Randy was pretty big, and if both he and Simon worked together they stood a chance, albeit a slim one, of taking him down. But Rhiannon was learning now that life doesn’t work that way, and if neither Simon nor Randy were willing to acknowledge the other’s relationship with her, then they couldn’t fight together for her. It would be a public admission of their triangle.

“This is your last chance,” Bradley said, lightly slapping her legs below the knee.

“I’m not wearing a bikini,” she wailed. “I don’t have a towel.”

“Not my problem,” he said and scooped her up.

“Fuck’s sake,” she said, and threw her phone and keys onto the sand near her bag.

Rob and a few others laughed. Her denim skirt rode up revealing her white thighs, and I thought perhaps Bradley got a sexual thrill from it. He had given up on the idea of being able to pull any of the girls, so using his power to humiliate them was the next best thing. If he could grab a quick feel in the process, his day was made.

We all watched him carry her down the beach, Rhiannon resigned to her fate and lying still in his arms. I wondered if she was saying anything to him as he padded onto wet sand and the waves began washing over his feet, then up to his knees as he moved out further.

This time, instead of throwing her, he maliciously lowered her in slowly, not letting her feet touch the ground.

I risked a muttered “Jesus Christ” just loud enough for Martin next to me to hear. Perhaps as a response, he laughed at what was happening in the water, and now more than ever I felt isolated.

Rhiannon stayed in the water, lying on her back, acting as if she wasn’t bothered. Meanwhile, Bradley was making his way back towards us, and the remaining girls were stirring uneasily. Even though it seemed unlikely he would pick on me, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, and I wondered how much of a struggle I would be willing and able to put up. His sneer widened as he approached, and it seemed possible that we could lie here in silence as he picked us up one by one and threw us into the ocean.

Then my attention was taken by two young girls standing fifty metres down the beach, chatting and looking over at us. I had seen that look a few times before in my life and I knew they were looking at me. I lowered my sunglasses and looked away but it was too late, and in my peripheral vision I could see them coming over. I thought about throwing my shoes on and running away, but that might not stop them asking the others about me. At least if I stayed I could exert some influence over the situation.

I was barely aware that Bradley was in front of the group again, grinning inanely. “He’s back for more!” Rob said excitedly, possibly the only other person getting off on it. As Bradley’s mate he was fairly safe; Rugby lads sticking together.

There were only three girls left, and I hoped that Martin would stick up for Claire, although Emma was the more likely choice because she was prettier. Then the two girls were by me, shielding their eyes from the sun even though it was behind sheets of clouds.

“Excuse me,” the blond one began. I ignored her but everyone else turned and looked at the girls, then at me. “Aren’t you Henry Clarke?”

I was still looking away, but with everyone else staring at me, I realised my attempt at ignorance was coming across as imbecilic. I looked at them and said, “Sorry?” pointing at my chest.

“You’re Henry Clarke.” They were grinning now.

I was aware of a heavy silence around me, then the thundering of a wave crashing into shore. I was hung-over.

“No. Sorry.”

The girls look slightly unsure of themselves.

“Yes you are,” Martin said. “I’ve seen your passport.”

I looked at him and nodded slightly, stuck. “Oh” was all I could think of to say.

“Could we get a photograph with you?” the brunette asked, and I laughed a little. They were English, these girls, but not the usual type who recognised me. Mostly I was placed by society’s elite, nine times out of ten by middle-aged women who saw me as an eligible bachelor for their pig-faced daughters. This was the world I had come to escape entirely, ten-and-a-half thousand miles away on the other side of the planet. These two girls, eighteen perhaps, must have read OK or More very closely, where my photo would appear occasionally from some fashionable party I had attended, usually standing next to someone far more famous…

Leatherman

2008-11-20T00:07:00.002Z

James Hardy is strolling along Berwick Street browsing the record shops. A bitter, jealous loathing erupts with an intensity that both shames and scares me. But the loathing is stronger than the shame.

He looks so casual that for a moment I wonder if I have the right man. Then he stops for two pretty girls half my age who are holding towards him pens and copies of his lavishly bound novel with a submissive eagerness that momentarily pleases my misogynistic tendencies. With a winning smile he scrawls his signature and, no doubt, a charming personal message on the title page of each.

He excuses himself and the girls watch him leave with the books clutched to their chests and their hearts swelling. He doesn’t look back and the girls turn away, giggling and opening their phones to tell their friends.

Sales of my novel have stalled at an embarrassingly lowly figure and in recent weeks, as James’ cherubic image beams out from every magazine and website alongside captions including words such as ‘genius,’ ‘sensational debut,’ and ‘selling by the bucket loads,’ he has become something of an obsession for me. The publicists assigned to my novel have spent their time and energy ensuring his success, leaving my effort to fend for itself. As a result, he has come to symbolise all my failings in the literary world and life in general.

And here he is, swanning about Soho in blissful freedom when he should be paying the price for his actions that have ruined my life. And not just mine. Another neglected Harper Collins author had a non-fiction book published and ignored on the same day as mine with Pauline and Mavis offering the pathetic excuse that the ‘self-help market is saturated.’

I follow him for awhile, anger building with every flick of his stupid blond hair, his sly smile that he flashes easily to shop assistants and passing ladies, his snobbish, elitist insistence on purchasing vinyl.

Finally we are alone together in the basement of one of the few record shops left here; the obscure, dusty vinyl-only cells where men with passion still get their kicks. My hand goes to my hip and fingers the lump there. I came straight from an early shift at Bid TV and my Leatherman is still on my belt. Without thinking, I pull it free of its case and flip out the sharp blade.

I move slowly towards him with the knife at waist level, ready to…I don’t know what. Stab him in the leg perhaps. At least cut a hole in his jumper. At the very least, show him the blade. From a distance in case he’s tough and disarms me.

I fail to reach a decision on which course of action to take and so end up stopping right behind him, breathing audibly. He turns, brushing against me, and takes a small step back, slightly unnerved.

“Can I help you?” he says.

“I suppose you think I’m an obsessive fan,” I say, going for a menacing tone.

“We’re all obsessive fans in a place like this,” he says with the quick wit that has sent interviewers, male and female alike, scurrying to their laptops to proclaim him the new Messiah.

I can’t think of anything to say to this, so I just stand and stare at him and his eyes narrow and he frowns and I think he is scared but then he says, “Hey, are you Christopher Hardy?”

“Errr…yes.”

“Oh, man.” He holds his hand out. “I’m a huge fan of your novel.”

Stunned, I slip the Leatherman, knife still out, into my jeans pocket and shake his hand. “Really? You’ve read it?”

“Yeah, a friend recommended it and I’d heard about you at Harper, so…Oh, I just had a novel published as well at Harper so I knew your name.”

“What’s the name of…err…”

“The Art of Life and Death.”

“Oh you’re James Hardy,” I say, then clear my throat.

“That’s right,” he says. “I’m honoured.”

“So…you’re a sci-fi fan?”

“Not ordinarily, no. but to be honest I didn’t really see your book as sci-fi. Don’t know if it’s just me, but…”

“People have said that,” I say, reeling from the sudden heart-thumping adoration I feel for this man with his gorgeous, stylish blonde hair, his playfully endearing smile, his flawless taste in music.

He sees me looking at the copy of Yanqui U.X.O. in his hands. “I have it on CD,” he says, “but the vinyl version is supposed to have extra stuff.”

“A nine minute extended ambient section,” I say as though in a trance.

“A man of taste,” he says. “Here, if you’re not doing anything do you fancy a pint?”

“John Snow?”

“Excellent. Love that place.”

“I’d have thought you’d be hanging out in private members clubs with your new found success.”

“Fuck that,” he says. “Pints are still two quid in the John Snow.”

While he pays for the LP I carefully fold the knife back into its housing and then just watch him.

After a few pints I’m moaning endlessly about Harper Collins and he is agreeing with me and empathising.

“They don’t know it but I’m going to leave them,” he confides. “Even if they make the biggest offer for the next book, I’m gone.”

“But the book’s doing so well. Why would you leave?”

“Because they don’t listen,” he says.

“I know,” I say, wondering how anyone could fail to listen to James Hardy.

“I wrote my manuscript with double speech marks, I specified double speech marks for the printing, and what do they use? Single speech marks. Shitty little singles.”

“Wow. Even mine has doubles.”

“I’m jealous. But also, they started the page numbers from the cover. So after all the copyright and blank pages and whatever, the first page number is seventeen. What kind of idiot does that? Page one is the title page. Count from there!”

“Takes the piss,” I say, sipping the Alpine. “I want to write about international terrorists next but they’re forcing me to do a sequel to Clear History.”

“Wankers. Although, I would read that.”

“You’ll be lucky. They haven’t offered me a contract yet.”

“Wankers,” he says again.

“You should have a word for me,” I say, smiling as though I am joking.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling and actually joking. “I just have so many ideas and I want to get them all down but there isn’t enough time. I wish I could somehow suck them all out of my brain and fire them onto paper. Do you feel like that? That it’s a race against time now and we’ve only got however many years left to live and so many stories to write?”

“Not…really. I don’t get many ideas.”

“Oh, I can’t stop. Sometimes it feels as though my head’s going to explode.”

“I suppose I have a few real-life stories but none of them are really full-length novels. Maybe short stories. I have some I try to put in other things but it always feels as though I’m just shoe-horning them in.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like when I was seven and I wrote ‘FUCK SHIT SHIT FUCK’ on a ruler.”

“Huh?”

“We had a communal tin in the classroom that everyone took a ruler from and I saw it on one of them and copied it onto another. I showed a girl on my table and she put her hand up and told the teacher.”

“Bitch.”

“I can still remember that awful, squirming feeling of dread while I was pleading with her and she wouldn’t put her hand down. I admitted it to the headmistress and she called my mum and I denied it to her. It went on for weeks with me admitting it to the headmistress and then lying about it to my mother. She had to come in to school and when they were together I’d deny it. I told my mother the ruler had said ‘bloody.’ I remember the look on the head’s face the next day in her office when she said ‘It was not bloody.’”

“That’s funny.”

“Or how I hated swimming for years because of an incident with my teacher.”

“Go on.”

“We went swimming in the summer and everyone had to get out of the pool while the teacher talked to us. I didn’t get out and he kept shouting at me and I ignored him and he kept shouting. All the kids were just looking at me and I beckoned the teacher over. He bent down and I whispered that I couldn’t get out because I had been thinking naughty thoughts and well, I had…become aroused. He winked and said, ‘Oh, I see. Don’t worry, lad.’ Then he stood up and faced the whole class and said, ‘Hardy will not be getting out of the pool because he has a boner.’

“No way.”

“Needless to say, there was much laughter and much embarrassment.”

“They’re both good but, yeah, difficult to find a place for.”

“Maybe one day.”

We finish our pints. He looks at his watch and rolls his eyes. “Better go. I’ve got Wogan in the morning.”

“Ugh. Typical.”

“Well, it’s been fun.”

“Yeah, we should do it again.”

“Well, you’ll often find me perusing the old vinyl racks for bargains.”

I pull out my phone. “Cool. But just give me your number and I’ll give you a ring next week or something.”

“Err… Tell you what, give me yours and I’ll call you.”

“You don’t like people calling you?”

“No, I’m just a bit funny about giving my number out. Been getting some crank calls recently.”

“I’m not a crank.”

“I know, I know. But I’d rather take yours. To be honest I’m not sure what my schedule’s like at the moment.”

“Okay.” I give him a fake number which makes me feel slightly better.

We shake hands and he leaves the pub in a hurry and I sit alone for a moment telling myself that I have enough friends anyway.

Thirty seconds later I am running down Poland Street yelling that I’ve given him my old number by mistake…

Book Tour Pt 2

2008-11-11T00:02:00.002Z

Mavis at Harper Collins has marked out on my itinerary for which appearances I should be drunk. Generally, as part of her continuing ‘Drunken Public Appearances’ plan, anything to be broadcast after nine pm has a D next to it. Some events with a liberal attitude have a DD meaning that I should be totally beyond my own control and will still probably avoid arrest. Mavis doesn’t seem to understand that once I start, the consumption of alcohol is already beyond my control, rendering the concept of regulating my level of intoxication laughable.

Last night's radio interview was a DD and yet, as I remember it, the DJ was delighted with my condition and, after baiting me into spouting ludicrous slurs against people of various races and religions, joined me with his own bottle of…Absinthe perhaps.

The session concluded at two am with the presenter actually snorting lines from the mixing desk and babbling like a madman about being the new king of Shock Jocks.

This morning I look online for any local or national stories about the incident but there is no trace of it anywhere, not even in the dregs of the blogs, and I feel, not for the first time, invisible.

Since the BBC has, in the last few years, reacted to minor scandals with a maniacal martyrdom, gleefully ripping its shirt off and flogging itself in the town square while sobbing and begging for more, cutting itself and firing anyone that happened to be in the office that day, comparing rash decisions made by stressed PAs to the atrocities carried out under Stalin and Hitler, offering to accept responsibility for every sin committed throughout history and generally declaring itself unfit for existence, it has been decided that all BBC interviews should be conducted whilst sober.

Mavis, though, as someone who probably thinks being drunk is giggling once or twice over an evening, hasn’t factored in the time required to sober up from such extreme intoxication, and I have to drive to Doncaster Radio at seven am covering one eye.

An ugly PA greets me at the door and I try to smile but just manage a pained grimace. She takes me to the green room. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

I start to shake my head, then stop, closing my eyes. “No solids.”

“Oh. Some tea then?”

“No liquids either.”

“Nothing then?”

“Can you make it tomorrow already?”

“Don’t wish your life away,” the nineteen year-old urges me.

The DJ is yet another bland early middle-aged man wearing an uncomfortable-looking jumper. I sit opposite him, trying to keep my head upright.

He introduces me. “Welcome to Doncaster.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking up on some irony in his greeting that isn’t actually there. “The AIDS capital of Great Britain.”

His smile drops. “I don’t think…” He falters.

“Luckily, I’ve already got it.”

He just stares at me.

“I haven’t really,” I say. “I’m not…involved in any of that sort of thing.”

“This is the BBC,” the presenter says.

“It’s alright,” I say. “It’s not… I mean, somewhere has to be, doesn’t it? I’m just saying.”

“I actually think that’s a myth started by spreaders of hate,” he rages, red-faced and spitting.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s not get bogged down in it.”

He looks at his notes, then back at me with a sneer. “How’s the tour going?”

“Fine.”

“Really? Pleased with sales so far?”

“I…think so.”

He gives a surprised snort. “Interesting.”

“I haven’t actually seen them.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to inform you on air?”

I panic. “AIDS capital.”

He reddens again. “How can it be the AIDS capital when there’re all those gays in Brighton?”

There is a suitable amount of dead air before a record is played.

I call Mavis on my way to Lincoln. “How many copies have I sold?”

Mavis sighs. “I don’t have that information right now.”

“Then find it. I know you’re in the office.”

“Christopher…”

“I want to know.”

“It’s not important right now.”

“Tell me now,” I say, and she sighs again and clicks her computer mouse.

“Erm… Two hundred and twelve.”

“Two hundred and twelve…thousand?”

“No. Two hundred and twelve copies.”

“Right. That’s not great, is it?”

“Early days,” she says. Then, “Sorry, got to go, James Hardy’s on the other line.”

At the next Travelodge later that morning, a bottle of J&B Scotch sits with a plastic cup wrapped in cellophane on my bedside table. With it, a printed note from Mavis:

‘An early DD this afternoon. Get stuck in!’

I groan and sit on the bed and then crack open the bottle. The fumes make me wretch. Nethertheless, I force the whisky down and after a few shots it starts to smooth out my hangover. Then, a third of the bottle through, I’m kneeling in front of the toilet watching streams of brown liquid force their way out of my stomach.

When I regain control, I sit on the bathroom floor, wiping tears away and moaning. Then I look at the bottle that for some reason I brought in with me, take a few deep breaths, and begin again.

The taxi takes me under a sign that has the word School on it but it barely registers because I’m slumped in the back, forcing the last of the whisky down my throat. I shove the empty bottle into my bag.

The headmistress and teachers are clearly disturbed by my condition but with the last of my lucidity I manage to avoid any challenges. “We want to encourage the children in their creative writing by hearing from someone who has made it into a career,” the headmistress says.

“You have progressive children,” I say, and she nods, confused.

The possibility that Mavis has mixed up the schedule leaves my mind along with the last fragments of my sanity as I stumble onto the stage and spend the first two minutes trying to open my book at the page with the large bookmark. “This is the live autopsy scene,” I say.

“‘Harris picked up a scalpel and leant forward over the patient. Holding the blade at face height, he looked for a moment at Reece. The agent’s eyes were rolling like marbles in a glass, and a low growl began to form in his throat, coupled with a gurgling, strangled gasping.

“‘Scully put a hand on the man’s brow, a gentle look in her eyes, as Harris moved the blade from the chest to the pubic bone, sending a fine arc of blood onto his gloves and arm. The Y-shape complete, Harris then pushed his fingers into the incision and peeled back the skin in three huge flaps, exposing the steel ribs and wasting muscles. Reece’s groan turned into a whistling, whining moan that made Scott want to cover his ears. He turned and saw that Wilson’s mouth was curved downwards in distaste. Only Owen remained impassive. In fact, Scott noticed, he was watching intently.

“’Harris strummed his fingers over the blood-flecked ribs, seemingly oblivious to Reece’s cries.’”

I pause for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to ward of the whisky nausea. There is a general murmuring among the adults, and a few of the children are crying. “Shut up,” I say, which makes them cry louder. I continue anyway.

“’A scalpel was used to make a fresh incision from behind one ear around the back of the skull to the other. As the cutting began, Reece’s face froze into a shocked stare and his eyes blinked stupidly. Harris remained in front of him, watching.

“’Reece’s scalp was then pulled up and inverted over the head, exposing the skull and mercifully, Scott thought, covering his face from view. His low moans were muffled now by his own flesh and hair.

“’One of the techs used the drill to unscrew the back of Reece’s skull, and then using a lever, he popped the top and lifted the bone clear, revealing the brain. Harris leaned over and prodded it, pushing his fingers into the cortex. Under his hand, Reece shook against the paralysis drug, and emitted a shrill shriek. Scully and her assistants first looked on in distaste, then turned away as Harris slid his fingers into the oozing pink organ up to the first knuckle.’”

I can’t find the section about pornography that I have been ending my adult readings with but I lunge into my post-reading routine without a bridge.

“Talking of pornography, I’ve never enjoyed watching it because circumcised cocks look so painful.”

The audience is restless now, and I jerk my head from side-to-side, vaguely noticing how young these children are.

“Do you think porn stars have porn collections?” I say, continuing the routine I’ve been considering taking into the comedy clubs. “And, hey, at what point do you think porn stars tell their kids what they do? ‘Err…I’m an actress.’ ‘Wow, mummy, can I watch one of your movies?’ ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t. Mummy has no clothes on and several men who aren’t your daddy are jizzing all over her…’”

A teacher jumps on stage and runs at me, swinging his fists. I stumble backwards and am bundled out of the hall and into my cab.

By the time I regain consciousness in my Travelodge room Mavis has drafted an apology letter to the school and the tour is finally over.

Book Tour part 1

2008-11-04T00:14:00.002Z

(You can now subscribe to this thing by email over on the right)

…My only television interview is for a local access digital cable channel in a shed in Shropshire. A young balding man greets me at the door and shows me to the green room which is just a cupboard with a portable TV showing dreadful documentaries about the local community. I make a cup of tea and then the same man leads me to the studio which is another tiny room with one fixed camcorder on an Argos tripod pointing at two plastic chairs in front of a green screen.

The screen makes me nervous because they are able to project anything that takes their fancy after the fact. On my Media Production course at Bournemouth University I once floated TWAT above the head of a fellow student who I actually quite liked, so I know what people are capable of.

The man clips a microphone to my shirt and then sits in the chair opposite mine. He clips on his own mic and slots an IFB into his ear. There appears to be no one else in the building, although it seems that he receives some information on his earpiece because he nods at the camera and then at me.

“Okay?”

“Yep. Great.”

He turns on a TV smile. “So, Christopher Hardy, welcome to our studio.”

“Thank you. Great to be here.”

“Your debut novel is called Clear History. Talk a little about how the idea came about.”

“Well, it’s an idea I’ve had knocking about for many years. Probably since I was about fourteen or fifteen. It’s an amalgamation of several different influences such as 1984, Robocop, Judge Dredd and computer games such as Beneath a Steel Sky and Syndicate. But it took me twelve years or so to make sense of all the ideas and come up with a cohesive storyline. Plus I wasn’t really mature enough to write a decent novel until a couple of years ago.”

“What genre would you place it in?”

I do a TV laugh. “Well, that’s a good question. I suppose it’s a sci-fi novel, and that’s where you’ll find it in the shops, but I think it has a broad appeal. It’s set in a semi-fictionalised version of our present, and the themes it tackles are, I think, very much of the present, or perhaps our immediate future.”

“Writing a novel is really a process of implanting a dream in someone’s head, isn’t it?”

“Err…Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“Is this a nightmare or a nice dream?”

“I suppose it’s more of a nightmare if I’m being honest. But, you know, an exciting one. The kind that when you’ve stopped shaking and sweating and you feel safe enough to turn the light off again, you want to write down. But don’t; I own the copyright.”

“Would you mind reading a passage?”

“Not at all.” I pick up the copy of my book by my feet and turn to the pages I’ve read five times already this week. I address the camera lens directly in an effort to engage the audience. My mouth is dry by the time I finish. I close the book and turn back to the presenter.

“Excellent,” he says. “That’s great. I think we’re ready.”

“Okay. Ready for what?”

“We can go for a take. Let’s roll to record. If you’re ready?”

“That wasn’t…recorded?”

“No,” he says. “I just needed to know a bit about you and the book before we start. This is the real thing. Ready?!”

I nod tiredly and his real TV smile appears, dangerously dazzling under the row of lights hanging from the pipe in the ceiling.

“So, Christopher Hardy. Welcome to the studio…”

…A surprisingly intelligent DJ on Radio Norwich actually seems to have read my book, which throws me at first. He has it at arm’s length, occasionally flicking it around his desk with the point of a finger as though it is somehow harmful.

“Your book is poison,” he says on air, screwing his face up in distaste.

“Sorry?”

“It appears to have embedded in it a thorough hatred of the human race.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved and delighted that someone finally appears to have understood my novel. “Yes, absolutely. Almost everything and everyone fills me with despair. Each day brings with it something else to send me further into a spiral of despair.”

“So how can you reconcile those feelings with an effort to sell your book to those very same people?”

“It is tough,” I admit. “Ideally only the small percentage of people who aren’t objectionable would buy it. I wanted to vet potential buyers, have them pass a series of tests before they were allowed to make a purchase, but the publishers wouldn’t allow it. So I’m encouraging people who have bought it to ask themselves a series of questions. If the answer is Yes to things like ‘Do you own and enjoy records by the Lighthouse Family?’ ‘Do you own more than one mobile phone?’ or ‘Did you actually complain to the BBC about Brand and Ross’ misguided comments?’ then they should return the book to me via my publisher and I will personally send them a cheque for the cover price because I don’t want them representing my audience. I’m not paying their postage though.”

“But surely a dual mobile-owning Lighthouse Family fan who doesn’t enjoy seeing old men humiliated in the name of light entertainment and also happens to appreciate your book demonstrates either the variety of tastes that make up our population or you’ve inadvertently written something that belongs in the same niche of popular culture?”

“That thought is certainly…chilling.” I say little else for the rest of the ten minute interview…

…I call Pauline back at Harper’s while I drive between Liverpool and Birmingham.

“I had to turn down four late shifts at QVC for this trip,” I moan. “I think that I should be compensated for that.”

“You should be thanking us. I thought you hated it.”

“I’m secretly in love with Anne Dawson,” I say. “We would have been together for two of those shifts.”

“If you do a good job then you’ll make as much money from book sales over the next two weeks as you would doing proper work. As for the woman, whoever she is, you’re married.”

“These Travelodges don’t even have mini-bars for Christ’s sake. I’m homesick. I want a contract for a second book. I want a tour manager. I want women sent to my room. I want a better room. I want my book sold to the US market. I want to stop seeing James Hardy on the television. I’m sick of driving. I’m racking up a fortune in petrol costs.”

“I told you, just keep track of your mileage and we’ll reimburse you.”

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“I forgot to reset my milometer. I’ve no idea how far I’ve driven since London.”

“I’m losing you Christopher,” she lies and she hangs up…

…I wake up in an unfamiliar town and some eager radio station actually sends a taxi for me. Unfortunately as I sit contentedly in a leather swivel chair in the interview booth, the DJ starts speaking to me in a foreign language and I simply cannot understand a word the woman says and after a few uncomfortable minutes she plays a record and just looks at me as if the mistake is mine.

“What country am I in?” I ask the intern leading me out of the building.

She looks at me as the DJ had. “Scotland.”

“Then why was that woman talking a foreign language?”

“It’s called an accent you cheeky wee English cunt,” she says.

I drive back across the border, thankful to be back where people speak proper English. Then I check my tour itinerary and see that I am going to Newcastle…

Free Counter

"Why Did You Give Me Brown Hair?"

2008-10-26T20:41:00.003Z

This is the entire email sent by an old girlfriend-of-sorts from university eleven years ago. We haven’t communicated for seven years. On that occasion, in a trough of heartbroken despair, I sent her a sprawling, drunken email, not in an effort to get back together, just for confirmation that she was unhappier than me. She wasn’t.

I met my wife shortly afterwards.

After reading this sparse information several times I realise that this girl, Linda (blonde), appears to be under the illusion that one of the characters in my novel is a thinly disguised version of her. This is slightly unnerving because the only character she can possibly be thinking of was modelled on Myra Hindley.

Nevertheless I reply out of courtesy and somehow end up with a lunch date at some Italian restaurant in Piccadilly. Mostly I am flattered because she is the only person not paid to do so who has intimated that she has read the book.

I tell Cheryl and the news registers with enough force to drag her eyes away from Facebook for a brief moment. Her fingers, however, remain poised over the keys, twitching. She makes a vague noise that expresses some disapproval.

I sit down. “Seriously,” I say. “This is purely just a sympathetic meeting. No need to worry.”

“Why go then?”

“Why does anybody do anything?” I say vaguely. Then, “We just had sex a few times over a few months. The truth is I was never really attracted to her even then.”

“Then why did you sleep with her?”

“Cheryl, I used to have sex twice a year if I was lucky. I had to jump at every opportunity because if I only did it with women I fancied then I never would.”

Cheryl laughs and snaps back into Facebook mode. The connection has been severed.

At twenty, Linda was a little plump. In the years intervening, her appetite has increased. My immediate thought as I enter the restaurant and spot her wedged into a booth is, ‘I hope we’re not splitting the bill in half.’

As I get closer she stands up and her full girth is revealed. (Later, when we leave, she goes into a newsagent for a packet of cigarettes. The shop has one of those sensors that beeps when someone enters and Linda sets it off three times in one passing).

She looks me up and down. “Wow! You look exactly the same,” she lies.

She stands awkwardly and I suspect that she is self-conscious about her weight, so I decide not to mention it. “You too,” I say instead after I have kissed her on the cheek.

“Oh, don’t fib,” she says, smiling and waving one hand as a shy dismissal. I say nothing and there is a silence that I fail to fill.

Her smile slowly fades and then she physically tires and squeezes back into the booth. I sit opposite her. The waiter comes and I order a beer. Linda already has a glass of wine.

I am relieved because I couldn’t shake the bizarre suspicion that Linda would awake some kind of attraction that I had either missed the first time around or beaten into denial in the years since I last saw her at the Graduation Ball, puking into a plant pot in the auditorium foyer. But there is nothing, and my memory, for once, is accurate. I was youngish and inexperienced and the opportunity of bedroom antics was still enough for me to overlook the fact that there was no sexual attraction on my part at all. Even when I started to feel a bit sick afterwards and guilty for taking advantage of a woman who clearly liked me very much, a friend (who I think was a virgin) convinced me that I should just use her for practise. And when that got old it was only when masturbation failed to hit the spot that I used her as a kind of luxury wank.

Again, I decide to keep this information to myself in case she finds it offensive.

“So, you remember Saul Peters on our course?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. Well, he’s big into sci-fi and he sent me a little interview you did for some website, and I was so excited! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“I ran out and bought the book the day it came out.”

“So you’re the one?” I say, smiling.

“Ha ha, still that sense of humour.”

“Well…”

“And it’s fantastic.”

The waiter interrupts us and I order a pepperoni pizza and another beer. Linda loudly orders a salad and keeps glancing at me for my reaction which makes me feel sad.

“And of course the more I read the more I identified with Sandra, and then it suddenly occurred to me. ‘Oh my God, it is me!’”

I shrug, embarrassed. “Well. You were…a major part of my life.”

She touches my hand, avoiding the gold ring on my finger. I brace myself for some kind of regrettable I-still-love-you confession. “That’s so nice to hear. To be honest I was worried that you wouldn’t want to meet me today.”

“Why would you…think that?”

“I know I hurt you.”

I blink a few times. “Sorry?”

“No, I’m sorry. I was young and I was confused and I really didn’t treat you very well. Sometimes I feel guilty for the way I behaved.”

“Right.”

“But you’ve managed to get over it,” she says with a merciful degree of self-deprecation. “Somehow!”

“It was…a struggle.”

“I bet your wife’s lovely.”

“She’s alright.”

“It was just such a relief when I heard about your novel.”

“A relief?”

“You were just so fucked up at university. All that booze and drugs and emotional avoidance. Pretending to be so aloof. So insular and immature. And then it turns out that you’re an artist and it all makes sense.”

“Right.”

“I was like, ‘Why did I not realise? God!”

“Yeah. So I should have been given special allowances. Like having an unruly child that you punish for not doing well at school and slapping girls in the playground or whatever and then he’s diagnosed with mild autism and you want to go back and replace all the beatings and cupboard lock-ins with hugs.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“And then after a few months the guilt and sympathy wears off and you just get annoyed and want to lock him away again.”

“Yeah.” She smiles uncertainly. “You’re so creative.”

“Cheryl think I’m fucked up because of Death Wish.”

“How come?”

“We all sat down to watch it as a family when I was about nine. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, my parents turned it off during the rape scene and sent me to bed and finished it. The next day they said I could watch it from after that scene. So I missed the motivation and just watched someone walking around shooting people for no reason for ninety minutes. Maybe you could talk to Cheryl and win me some understanding.”

“I’d love that!” she shouts, beaming, and I look away and eventually the food arrives. Linda surveys her salad with something approaching depression. I blow gently at my steaming pizza to send the delicious aroma of melting cheese over to her and her nose twitches involuntarily.

“So, you haven’t got married yet?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No. Not this girl. Footloose and fancy free!”

“Party girl, hey?”

“Yeah, you got it!”

We eat for awhile.

“There was someone serious once,” she says finally.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She looks out of the window. “It didn’t work out.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Still,” I say. “Single and free, right?”

She looks back at me. “Right.”

Afterwards, outside the newsagent, she hugs me and doesn’t let go. “Would you like to do this again?” she asks me, her voice muffled against my jacket.

“Yes…definitely. I have a small book tour to do, but then…”

“I’d love that.”

She still doesn’t let go. People are watching us as they pass on the street and I gently, then forcefully, pry us apart.

She looks tearful. “So good to see you,” she says.

I stick both my thumbs up in an absurd gesture of…I don’t know what, and then she heads into the shop and I walk and then jog towards the tube stop, clawing for my iPod, cursing the always-tangled earphones, desperate to kill thought with loud music.

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness...

2008-10-19T20:37:00.002+01:00

I dislike being the centre of attention but the launch party is a concession I make in order for those close to me to express their adulation and pride at my success. Or their envy and bitterness. I don’t really mind which as both will make me feel special. To stifle this emotional outlet would be unfair on my friends.

My publicists have given me a budget of four hundred pounds. Like everyone in my position I had, as I scrawled my childish signature on the publisher’s contract fourteen months ago, imagined a lavish event with a red carpet, limousines, paparazzi, formalwear and invitations printed on gold-edged cards and mailed by private couriers. My expectations had dwindled since then, of course, but even so this paltry budget was something of a surprise.

I sent a whiney email to Pauline, largely because I’d managed a thousand words of the follow up to Clear History that day and was at a loose end. In a decidedly terse reply, she informed me that the offer was non-negotiable, and that I needn’t produce receipts. I immediately hired a small room above a tatty old pub in Acton that still hadn’t managed to air out all the fumes since the smoking ban was implemented, ordered a limited amount of booze, sent a load of Evites and gave the remaining two hundred pounds to Cheryl towards a ticket home for a week around Thanksgiving. She became teary when I handed the cash to her and hugged me while I fantasised about what I might do with the week to myself.

Neither Pauline nor Mavis is able to attend the party as they are busy organising James Hardy’s launch at the Kensington Roof Gardens next week. Apparently, catering to the needs of the various royals and dignitaries due to attend the event is “a major headache.” I swallow the stabbing jealousy this information causes and realise that my party could well run more smoothly in their absence. Their ghoulish auras could confuse other guests who might wrongly assume they missed the Halloween theme on the Evite.

Cheryl has been called into a late shift at Sky which simply opens the door for the potential Californication-style misadventures that have so far eluded me. (I understand that the producers only have Duchovny’s character yeaning for the love of the mother of his child to allow the average viewer to accept the naked joy of his endless sexual encounters with gorgeous filthy young LA bimbos).

I arrive half an hour after the start time and buy a pint downstairs. I am being a pleasure delayer: delaying the pleasure of the guests upstairs. I sit in the corner and receive a text message from my friend Brandon informing me that he has been under the weather and won’t be able to attend. I watch the door and no one I know comes through it.

Slightly alarmed now, I make my way upstairs and stand blinking in the dark emptiness of the hired room. The young man the pub has supplied as part of the package is seated behind the makeshift bar, head leaning back against the wall. He suddenly notices me and leaps to his feet, rubbing his eyes. He is playing some kind of techno at a low level over a portable CD player.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Another text, this time from Mark. His young child has a fever. An epidemic in London, perhaps.

I approach the barman. “Welcome,” he says in a heavy European accent.

“Polish?” I say.

“Oh, no sir. From Slovenia.” He opens a bottle of beer and hands it to me. “You are here for writer’s party then.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking around. “Am I early?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “Perhaps this writer man is not so popular, no?”

I force a smile. ”No, I guess not. Strange, I thought he was alright.”

“Oh, he is a friend of yours? You are close?”

“No,” I say. “Not so much.”

“Even he doesn’t come to own party. That says something, no?”

He laughs and I ask him for whisky. “He’s okay,” I say quietly.

“You are a good friend, I think. No one else come, but you come. That is…nice for you.”

“It’s still early.”

“Yes, of course. Still time.”

I drain the Scotch. “I have to make a phone call.”

He holds his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of non-obstruction. “Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

He makes a show of rearranging the bottles on the table and I walk to the far end of the room, calling my agent.

“Christopher! What’s up?”

“I’m dying here. How far away are you?”

“Away from what?”

“What do you mean, from what? Where are you?”

“Mama Mia baby. It’s cinema night.”

“Again? What about my launch party?”

“Oh, shit,” he shouts. “I forgot that was tonight. I’m sorry. My mum was supposed to remind me.”

“Your mum’s senile.”

“Yeah. I’ve got to get a new system.” Then, slightly muffled, “Why don’t you shut up?” followed by a distant ‘Fuck off.’

“Wait, are you in the cinema now?”

“Hold on mate. Yeah, yeah, shove it up your arse, I’m talking.”

“Sid, come now. There’s no one here.”

“No way. Meryl’s about to launch into ‘Dancing Queen.’” Immediately the opening bars flair into life so loud that it distorts and I slide the phone shut to stop its squawking.

I walk back over to the barman. “You may as well go home. No one’s coming.”

“You never know,” he says.

“If someone does come I can handle their drinks.”

“I prefer to stay. I don’t like to leave my job until it is finished. Then, no problem for me.”

“At least have a drink.”

“Oh sure, I will drink.”

We drink most of the bottle of Scotch. No one comes.

“I’m having problems with the world,” I tell the barman. “I find it harder to relate to people. Is it an age thing, I wonder?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Certainly an age thing. I feel the same way.”

“I’m bored by people’s opinion. I’m scared by people spending hours on Facebook.”

“Facebook is stupid.” He waves his hand as though sweeping Facebook away.

“People who know only one thing about someone that undermines their entire career of merit. Like, Woody Allen; paedophile. Kobe Bryant; rapist. Zidane; the head butt.”

“Zidane is one of the greatest footballers ever.”

“Exactly. If there’s one thing that makes me feel like an alien amongst humans it’s watching Saturday night TV through my fingers knowing millions of people are wedged in their sofas munching Pringles, braying with laughter and actually rooting for a celebrity to…dance on ice, or something.”

“Sure. Saturday nights should be out with the music and the girls.”

I gulp down a beer. “And look at the movies they love. Norbit and Chuck and Larry and Saw V.”

“Norbit wasn’t so bad.”

“Really?”

The barman shrugs.

“Well,” I say. “What about the music? The Kaiser Chiefs and McFly and fucking Westlife?”

“I don’t mind the Westlife so much.”

“What?”

“They are fun. They enjoy it.”

“I don’t want my music fun. I want the musicians to sweat and bleed and become junkies to suffer for their art.”

“That Pete Doherty man is a nasty man. A nasty filthy junkie man.”

“I like him,” I say quietly.

“Oh. Me, not so much.”

We sit in silence and finish the whisky. It is past midnight.

I get off my stool. “I should go, I suppose. Give me that bag. I’m going to take this booze home.” I begin to put bottles of beer in a plastic bag.

The barman stops me. “I can’t let you take this.”

“Why?”

“I get in trouble. This writer man must take it. He paid for it.”

“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s me. I’m the writer man.”

“No.” He stops me and takes the bag back. “Nice try but you are nice man. Writer man is a bad man. But the bad man gets the drink. It is not fair perhaps, but is the only way.”

I’m drunk but I resist showing him my driving licence to prove my identity. Instead I release the bag and stand up as straight as I can. “You are an honourable man,” I tell him.

“Yes, it is the only way,” he says again.

I salute him and make my way past the mayhem of the Red Back and along Uxbridge Road, fingering the speech still folded in my trouser pocket.

"Maniacal Bent..."

2008-10-10T05:42:00.002+01:00

I hear a screech of tyres outside my house and look out of the bedroom window to see Sid, my agent, pulling up in his Beetle like something out of Grand Theft Auto. He hits the kerb with a front wheel and bounces up onto the pavement before jerking to a stop.

I get in the passenger side. “Just because you couldn’t afford a Porsche it’s not going to stop you driving like you could?”

“Perhaps the brakes could do with a tune up,” he muses, grinding the gears and scraping the underside of the chassis as we rejoin the road.

“You are sober, I hope? Best to check.”

“Sober and excited,” he says. “People have heard about you, Christopher. Word has spread. If Harper want to keep dragging their heels then we’ll show them we’ve got other options.”

“Sounds good.”

“Clearly their plan is to wait and see if there’s an audience before signing you on for a second book.”

“Clearly.”

“Well, rather than affording them the luxury of seeing it flop disastrously and then dropping you like a hot turd…”

“For Christ’s sake…”

“We force their hand and panic them into snapping you up into a long term contract.”

“Like the one you turned down in the first place?”

Sid waves his hand dismissively. “If we’d signed that contract we wouldn’t be in a position to negotiate now.”

“Right. How many other publishers are interested, exactly?”

Sid swerves the car unnecessarily wildly around a parked car. “Did you see that?” he mutters unconvincingly. “Madness.”

“Sid?”

“Hmm?”

“How many?”

He gestures out of the window at nothing. “The crazies are out today.”

“How many, Sid?”

“I’ll worry about the business side of things,” he says. “You concentrate on writing another winner.”

“Just the one, then.”

“Listen, this guy’s big in Sci-fi. Everyone knows Bilbo Hewlins.”

I sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he calls himself Bilbo for any reason other than The Lord of the fucking Rings is there please God?

Sid frowns in thought. “No, I think it’s a coincidence. He was called Bilbo ages before those films came out.”

We park in a residential cul-de-sac in Tadley. When Sid stops the engine even he pauses for thought.

“Why are we here?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “This is the address he gave.”

We get out and walk down a driveway half-swallowed by overgrown bushes encroaching from the lawn. The Volvo parked by the garage has scrape marks down its side made by twigs at the end of branches acting like stiff wooden fingers.

A small hand-written sign above the doorbell reads ‘Yes! this is Hewlins Publishers.’ Sid pushes the bell.

“Why a hot turd?” I ask him.

“Huh?”

“Why a hot turd?” I stress.

“Well, it’d burn your hand, wouldn’t it?”

“But surely you’d drop any turd, even if it was lukewarm?”

“Maybe you picked it up thinking it was just a stone or something, and you drop it because it’s hot rather than because it’s a turd.”

“So what was the point of it being a turd? Why not just a hot stone?”

He shrugs. “Your fingers would smell after a turd.”

I open my mouth to say something else then decide not to and the door opens.

Bilbo Hewlins is short and hairy and he lives in a semi-detached house that could only look more like a warren if his wife had given birth to rabbits rather than the free-range kids now running riot around the house. They all look the same and it is impossible to determine how many there are. Groaning bookshelves frame the walls and piles of books stand on almost every available inch of floor space. It is comforting even though I am secretly ambivalent towards them.

We sit on dirty armchairs in the living room and talk through crowds of children. Sid leans forward. “Basically, Harper are procrastinating just to show us who’s boss. We know they’re going to sign us up but we’re not sure we want to stay with them. We want to explore other options.”

“I see. I’ve never spoken to anyone who’s wanted to move from a major to an independent.”

“Alright,” Sid says, sagging into the chair. “They’re probably going to drop us and we’re looking for someone else to take us.”

I stare at Sid with my mouth open and Bilbo coughs uncomfortably. Eventually I recover the power of speech. “Remind me never to commit a crime with you,” I say. “I’ve never seen someone crumble for nothing like that.”

I look at Bilbo.

“It’s not even true. We don’t know what’s happening. But it would be nice to think we have other possibilities if it doesn’t work out for us there.”

He nods. “I understand. Well, it might be a breech of your contract to show me your work so far on the follow up, but of course if the situation does change then I would be happy to take a look.”

“What kind of advance are we talking?” Sid blurts out. “As my client is a published author we’d be looking for big numbers.”

Bilbo narrows his eyes. “I really don’t have the resources…”

“At least three figures,” Sid says.

Bilbo looks at me questioningly but I look away. “I might be able to manage that,” he says.

“Oh wait. I meant six. Six figures.”

Bilbo laughs without humour. He waves one hand at our surroundings. “This is a very small operation. A small company. We put out a lot of books but our sales are small. There’s not a great deal of money in this industry anymore. Especially in the specialist markets. We’re lucky to break even most years.”

“And a large first run of, say, a hundred thousand copies,” Sid says.

Bilbo looks at me again but I have found something desperately interesting on the chair cushion. He turns back to Sid. “If a major house such as Harper cannot make Christopher a success than how exactly can I? I don’t have the resources, the contacts, the bribes or the maniacal bent.”

“The quality of the work will shine through,” Sid claims.

“From what I’ve heard back from conventions, the quality isn’t exactly all that high,” Bilbo says. My chest compresses a little.

“Oh,” Sid says. “Damn.”

“Look, I haven’t read it and it may be great. If you send me a copy I promise I shall read it and get back to you. I can’t say more than that at this stage.”

Outside, I turn to Sid and fake a bright smile. “Well, I think that went well.”

He beams back. “Good. Yeah. You’re right. Great.”

We walk to his car and I suddenly feel utterly alone in the universe.

"Temple Trample..."

2008-10-02T01:13:00.002+01:00

Not only does my father email to invite me to lunch - his treat - but he actually makes the trip to London by train to meet me. He asks me to pick the restaurant, so, through a total lack of imagination, I choose Christopher’s in Covent Garden.

As I wait for my father to show up I try to think of things to say that aren’t bitter, hurtful or childish.

“My name’s Christopher as well,” I tell the pretty waitress as she pours my bottle of beer into a glass.

“Wow,” she says, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. In a place like this the staff is supposed to treat its customers reverentially but they see through me.

“If I was wearing a suit would you take me seriously?” I ask her.

“Possibly,” she says, smiling, and she takes the empty bottle away as my father arrives.

I stand and we shake hands. “You’re married, Christopher,” he says, looking at the departing waitress. We sit.

“There’s something you have to understand about me,” I tell him. “Clearly I’m not the Lothario that you were at my age because women have not the remotest interest in me. It doesn’t matter how flirtatious I am, how witty or interesting, they don’t care. If I was trapped on a desert island for years with an averagely attractive woman and it was just the two of us, not another man around or any possibility of one arriving, we’d be friends at best.”

“Don’t be absurd. What about Cheryl?”

“Proof that miracles can happen. Why do you think I married her? Apart from not being able to afford to live alone of course.”

“I’m sure. What about that other girl, the one with the birthmark that used to hang around you at university?”

“Just friends. And I’d slip her some cash to act loving whenever family came round.”

He watches me with a look of weathered patience.

“Of course, Kenneth,” I say. “You married every woman who showed the least interest in you.”

“What’s this ‘Kenneth’ nonsense?”

“’Dad’ sounds so uncouth. I think I should call you by your name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“All the cool kids are doing it.”

“Is that what you are then? Cool?”

“You better believe it, Daddio.”

He holds his hands out, palms up. “Daddy. That’s better.”

This is the funniest joke I’ve ever heard him make so I decide to give him a break.

“I’d like to order wine,” he says. “But you’ve already got a beer.”

“I can do both. Come on, neither of us are driving.”

We both order steaks and he chooses a wine that I approve with a confident nod of my head even though I don’t even understand what he says. When a dribble is poured into his glass for tasting he swills it round his mouth with sucking motions I can actually hear and considers it for an indecently long period before he gestures for the glasses to be filled.

“This is a step up from the McDonald’s you used to take me to every other Saturday afternoon,” I say.

“Perhaps. That’s where you wanted to go when you were that age.”

“Maybe I would have liked a steakhouse if you had taken me.”

“Perhaps,” he says again.

We drink our wine and look out over Wellington Street and The Strand. It is teeming.

“There are too many people in this city,” my father says. “Too many people in the world. I thought that when I was your age but it’s transformed beyond comprehension in the last thirty years. If it keeps going I’m glad I won’t be alive in another thirty. Look at this latest temple trample in India. Put a million people in one place and there’re bound to be problems.”

I say nothing and look at my wine.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing. I’m just staying away from any conversation potentially involving immigration. Ealing has already all but banned my book because of my comments about the Polish.”

“What have they said?”

“Nothing. If there was a local headline saying ‘Don’t Buy This Book’ or something it would be fantastic. Any negative publicity fuels sales. Instead there’s just a wall of silence. They’re very clever. Meanwhile the residents of Warsaw are desperate to get their hands on it and they won’t be able to.”

“I didn’t realise they had this power. I thought they just built the houses.”

“Badly,” I say. Then, “Damn it.”

“No one’s listening.”

The food arrives and I cut into the medium rare steak, letting the fries soak up the blood deliciously.

“Terrible thing, this economy crisis,” he says.

“I guess.”

“Worrying times. What do you make of it?”

“I’m not worried. I don’t understand it and I don’t care. Whatever happens happens.”

“You should care. We could be entering a severe depression.”

“Maybe I’d care if I owned anything or had any money. As long as people keep buying shite from shopping telly channels I’ll scrape a living. It used to be that no matter how poor people were they’d always find cash for booze and fags. Add anything that spins on a Lazy Susan on TV to that list.”

“You can’t just bury your head in the sand.”

“Why do you care anyway? You’re retired and your house is paid off.”

“I have stocks and shares.”

“Don’t understand that either. Just keep it in a bank and the government will bail it out if necessary. I’m intrigued, what lures you out from your country haven? Bored of pottering around in your garden and watching the cricket?”

He is quiet for a few seconds, then he brings from his brief case a folded newspaper. “It seems perhaps I have done you a disservice.”

“Really? In what way?”

“I should have taken your writing a little more seriously.”

My eyes flick to the paper. “Oh yeah?”

“The Financial Times, no less.” He pats the paper. It is his bible.

“Let me see!”

“Oh, no, I just bought this. It was a few days ago now.”

“Oh. Was it a positive review?”

“It wasn’t a review. Just a mention. A list of upcoming releases.”

“Oh.”

“But when I saw your name and the title of the book…It suddenly seemed real.”

I am flushed with pride at my dad’s acknowledgement. “What did you think before? That I was making it up?”

“No, no. Perhaps I didn’t fully grasp how big a publication it is. You’re going to have to start worrying about your finances soon.”

“It’s not big. It probably won’t change my finances.”

“It’s mentioned in the FT. Do you know how many people read that?”

“No. But even if it’s millions, so what? How many of the other books mentioned alongside mine are you going to buy?”

He looks at the paper thoughtfully. “Oh.”

“Yes. If it gets a good review, then maybe. I’m hoping for the best.”

He nods. “I see.”

“Does that change it all back again now? Or does it still seem real?”

“It still seems real,” he says. But he had to think about it. We finish our steaks, the brief emotional spike in the lunch flat lined once more.

"Smile For Me..."

2008-09-24T23:09:00.002+01:00

“This is me smiling,” I say.

“Come on,” Pauline urges from behind her video camera. “You look miserable.”

“My face doesn’t register emotion. Rest assured, inwardly I’m bubbling.”

Pauline, my publicist, has brought me to a factory in Suffolk where someone in brown overalls is about to push a button which will begin the process of churning out the initial run of five thousand copies of my novel, Clear History.

“How do you feel, Christopher?” Pauline says, voice muffled against the camera’s metal casing.

“Good,” I say. “Yeah, quite excited. Good.”

“Let me see some enthusiasm.”

“I’m excited,” I snap, annoyed.

Twenty or so of the factory’s machine operators are lined up with their hands clasped in front of them, staring with expectant smiles which make me feel uncomfortable.

“Okay,” the manager says, pushing his black glasses up his nose. “Are you ready?”

I nod and he looks at me, waiting for something more. When he finally realises that this is the extent of my public displays of emotion, he reluctantly signals for the party to begin. The machines crank up with an irritatingly loud meshing noise and the workers pull mufflers over their ears.

“It takes around five hundred people to operate the machines for one book,” the manager shouts in my ear.

“I’ve heard that,” I say. “Is it true?”

“Not really. Only if you totally manipulate the figures and factor in workforce you shouldn’t. But it sounds impressive.”

“Get ready!” Pauline shrieks, and then copies of my book begin spilling onto a conveyer belt and trundling towards us. “Yay!” she says.

The workers clap and smile again. Pauline shoves the camera in my face and I wink into the lens, a lazy gesture that requires minimum emotional output but that people sometimes seem to get a kick out of.

The workers begin to package the books into boxes except for the very first copy which makes it all the way to the end and the manager gestures at me to pick it up as though he is offering me the Holy Grail. Which, in a way, he is.

I pick it up and look at the cover. “Nice,” I say, nodding.

“How do you feel?” Pauline asks me again, this time in a singsong voice.

I wink again, and hold both my thumbs up and try to smile.

The red light on the front of the viewfinder darkens and Pauline drops the camera to her side. “Well, I fucking tried,” I think I hear her say and then she marches to the table at the side of the room and pushes the camera into its bag and zips it up. Then she just stands with her back to the room.

“Now you get a tour of the factory,” the manager tells me.

“Just one second,” I say, and then I join Pauline at the table. “I’m doing my best,” I shout.

She turns and looks at me with obvious displeasure. “Come outside a second,” she says, and I follow her to the entrance. With familiarity comes acceptance and she no longer repulses me. She still has the power to unnerve me, though.

We push through the reception and out into daylight where she stands and faces me with her hands on her hips. “It’s my job to help your book sell but there’s nothing more I can do for you,” she says.

“I’m not a good actor, Pauline. What do you want from me?”

“You shouldn’t have to act. This should be the happiest day of your life, next to your wedding day.”

“It is. But I look miserable in my wedding photographs too. People look at them and think it was my mother’s funeral. And that day I wasn’t forced to wear an ill-fitting luminous jacket.”

“Do you think we do this for everyone? This is a privilege, and I wanted to get some footage of you acknowledging that and fucking crying for joy when the books appeared. This is your dream in print. There’s a video on YouTube of some mad author jumping up and down and dancing in the printing factory and it’s fantastic and joyful. Would it have been too much to ask for you to show the world how you’re feeling?”

“I’m not like that. I’m sorry. I do appreciate everything you’ve done. But I just can’t imagine Cormac McCarthy dancing a jig on the Internet.”

The manager sticks his head through the main doors. “You’re missing it all,” he says.

Inside, he takes me around the factory, pointing at each bit of machinery and explaining its function. After half an hour I tell him that I have things to do and he stares at me as if I’ve just eaten one of his fingers.

In my car outside my flat I sit for a few minutes and hold the book in my hands. What Pauline doesn’t realise is that the whole process is a very private one for me. I wrote the book longhand alone in my bedroom lying face down on my bed listening to music on my iPod over hundreds of hours and people will read the book (hopefully) alone, independently, a unique experience. I don’t know what the whole process is about, but I do know it isn’t about factories and machines and video clips.

The cover looks great and my name doesn’t have (1976-) after it and there’s a blank page at the end so people can’t open it to read the inside flap and accidentally read the last few words. I look okay in the photograph. The text isn’t too big or small. It smells nice.

Then I turn to the dedication and run my fingers over it.

Dedicated to the Memory of Susan Hardy (1948-2008)
A Loving Mother without whom none of this would be possible

It looks nice in print. “It may not be a great novel,” I say out loud in case she can hear me. “But it’s something. It’s something anyway.”

Cheryl is home and she claps excitedly and hugs me and I realise I should have taken her to perform at the factory. “I’m so proud,” she says.

She grabs the book and looks at the front and back covers and the inside flaps. “It’s so exciting,” she says. Then she flicks through the first few pages and reads the dedication and looks at the prologue and then she puts it back down and walks into the kitchen.

I follow her and watch her preparing dinner. “I don’t think I performed for the camera as the publicists wanted.”

“No?”

“They should have got me drunk again.”

“Mmm.”

“Or drugs.”

She says nothing.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep.”

It isn’t. “What’s wrong?”

She stops and sighs with her back to me. “I just thought that…as your wife, the person closest to you, that you might, you know, have dedicated your book to me.”

I blink a couple of times. “Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed, but I did. It didn’t actually cross my mind that you wouldn’t. It’s a bit of a shock.”

My mouth is dry. “I’m sorry. If she hadn’t have died this year then it might have been different. But this…just seemed appropriate.”

“Maybe. But there’s nothing stopping you having two dedications, is there?”

“I thought it would detract from hers.”

“So you did think about it?”

“A little. Look, I only know about six people. If I blow two on the first book then I’m going to start repeating myself or dedicating them to the postman or something. Look, I promise that the next one will be for you.”

She turns to face me. “What if this is the only one?”

I scramble desperately for an answer. “It doesn’t…change my feelings for you.”

“What does it even mean, anyway? Of course none of this would have been possible. She gave birth to you.”

“I thought it was nice.”

She turns back to the counter. “I’ll get over it,” she says. “I get over everything, don’t I?”

I make my way back to my armchair and sit and hold the book which seems heavier suddenly. “Love you,” I call timidly through the open doorway.

Conrad Nolan...

2008-09-16T23:35:00.003+01:00

My agent Sid has invited me to drinks with the literary legend, Conrad Nolan. He has written fifteen novels of considerable artistic merit. Apparently. I have never read any of them. Sid thinks I will benefit from talking to one of the masters and to my surprise I am genuinely excited to meet him.

Sid calls me to stop in the John Snow for a cheap pint beforehand. He has brought a Singles Club date along; a plump, homely girl with kind eyes. She is introduced as Molly.

“I wish I’d known you were bringing someone,” I tell Sid. “I could have brought Cheryl. She’s talking to me occasionally now.”

“Well, it’s a foursome with Conrad.”

“So Conrad Nolan is my date?”

“If you like.”

“How do you know him anyway? You’re constantly surprising me.”

“Oh, I don’t. No, he’ll see anyone providing they buy his drinks all night. His novels don’t sell, you see. They’re far too…intelligent.”

“How long have you been doing this Internet dating thing?” I ask Molly.

“Thirteen years,” she says.

“Not that successful so far, then?”

“You live in hope. But there are some demented people out there.”

Sid nods in agreement. “Molly here is like a breath of fresh air. I’ve done two so far and they’ve both been retards.”

Molly frowns. “Actually, I find that quite offensive. My brother is mentally challenged.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sid says.

“You weren’t to know.”

“No, I mean I can’t go out with someone who has a retarded brother.”

“What?”

“I can’t sit around a dinner table with him. They make me feel a bit sick. I’m just being honest and it’s good we’ve found out now.”

She leaves in stunned silence and we are alone.

“It’s a minefield, mate,” he confides.

Conrad Nolan is sitting alone at the upstairs bar in his private members club, sipping from a large tumbler of Scotch. I recognise him from his Wikipedia photograph, in which he is striking an identical pose.

Sid introduces himself and then me and we sit in a booth and order drinks from an elderly waiter. Nolan drains his glass and leans into Sid. “I always feel that it’s beneficial in the long run to clarify the money situation up front.”

“Oh, right, absolutely,” Sid says. “It’s all on me.”

Nolan smiles. “Good. Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“You sound like a prostitute I hired in Berlin,” I tell him.

“Quite right. Writers are all whores. It’s best you know that sooner rather than later.” We laugh. “I am quite serious,” he says.

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” Sid says. “I’m a huge fan.”

Sid is lying. He reads less than me.

“All art is quite useless. You know who said that?”

Sid nods. “Shakespeare.”

Nolan looks at him for awhile. Then, finally, “Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s who I meant,” Sid says snapping his fingers.

“That great poofter.”

The drinks arrive. I take a gulp of the whisky.

“There are worse professions, naturally,” Nolan says. “We must all aspire to greatness else what would mankind ever achieve?”

“Quite,” I say, then stand up. “Excuse me. Must run to the men’s.”

“Yes,” Nolan says, standing as well. “I need to piss like a race horse.”

We stand side by side at the urinal in silence and the pressure causes a short delay. As soon as I manage to begin, though, Nolan lets out a fart like a firecracker that reverberates around the tiled bathroom and then he sighs with pleasure.

“Do you know why I never wear shorts?” he suddenly asks.

“Can’t say I do.”

“When I piss in a urinal I can feel the splash back sprinkling my bare legs. With long trousers we can of course pretend that our clothing remains completely dry and clean. Everything is an illusion, my boy.”

I zip up and wash my hands. Nolan continues his business.

“So you want to be an author, do you?”

“Actually, I am an author. My first book is out next month.”

He chuckles and turns around. “You think that just because your book is being published that makes you an author?”

“Ermmm…Yes?”

“It’s taken me three decades to feel as though I have a right to a position in the literary world. And even now sometimes I am unsure.”

I nod and then abruptly he turns and locks himself in a cubicle. I run out and slide back into the booth.

“Isn’t he everything you expected him to be?” Sid says.

“And more.” I flick through the drinks menu, goggling at the prices. “Sid, how are you going to pay for this? It’s mental.”

“I sold off some of mother’s jewellery. I hid it for a few weeks first to make sure she didn’t miss it. She didn’t.”

Nolan returns from the bathroom. The waiter seems to float over. “More drinks?”

“I tried a new system with Sebastian last night,” Nolan tells the waiter. “Have you a countdown function on your watch?”

“No sir, but I believe I may have one on my phone.”

“Very good. Every time you bring me a drink, set the timer for five minutes. When the alarm sounds, bring me another drink. Repeat.”

“Absolutely sir.”

I widen my eyes at Sid. He leans towards me. “There’s more jewellery hidden away somewhere,” he says.

Nolan is Oliver Reed-drunk by nine pm and the other, quieter, members pay little attention to his bellowing. I drink quickly too but in the shadow of his intoxication I remain lucid. “Are you married, boy?” he roars at me.

“Yes I am,” I say.

“You idiot. They are all sluts. Every one of them.”

I shrug. “Cheryl’s not really so slutty. She flirts with waiters occasionally, but…”

“She’ll betray you in the end. That’s why you must betray her first. Damage limitation. I married a beautiful woman when I was nineteen. Went down the shitter within two years. So I married an ugly one next. Same result but without even the temporary joy of sexual excitement. The third one was vivacious, wild, untameable. Could not have been more fun. It only took her ten months to become exactly the same as the other two. It doesn’t matter how different they are at first. They all turn into the same woman in the end. Never marry. You show me the most beautiful girl in the world, I’ll show you the man who’s tired of fucking her.”

Sid nods at me earnestly. “Is all this useful?”

“Undeniably,” I say. “You shouldn’t have sent Molly home. She’d be loving this.”

Nolan swings his massive red head to face me. “What do want from me?”

“I don’t know. How do I stop my book coming out unnoticed?”

He laughs. “You’re asking the wrong man. I know this. Luck can cause a novel to struggle but it takes talent to really sink it.”

“I’m not sure that…actually means anything.”

He gulps down another Scotch. “Do you know why I’m still in love with writing? I can hide behind my characters to give all my opinions that in real life are totally unacceptable. Under the guise of someone everyone is clearly supposed to loathe I can pour out all my misogyny and bigotries and no one can catch me out. I like to set my stories in the American West so that the women can be raped by marauding gangs and the weak are disadvantaged further and the slaves are called niggers and no one can say a damn thing about it.”

“Oh Jesus.” I bury my head in my hands.

“That is the true pleasure of writing.” He wobbles to his feet and totters to the toilets.

Sid looks at me. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

“In what way?”

Sid shrugs. “Just… His presence.”

“Pay the bill. I want to leave.”

Sid signals for the bill. He looks downcast. “I hoped that this might be beneficial.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Why?”

I nod towards the gents’. “I’m worried you’ve shown me the future.”

Sid thinks. “You in thirty years?”

I nod.

“Wow,” Sid says. “Fifteen novels. Can you imagine?”

"Everyone Speaks A Different Language..."

2008-09-10T06:37:00.002+01:00

Mavis, my Harper Collins publicist, is demonstrating a point in an effort to diffuse my anger. She holds a sheet of A4 paper rolled into a ball and points at one of those holes in a desk ringed with plastic that computer cables run through. This one is currently unused.

“This is what it’s like selling books,” she says. She hands me the ball. “Throw this through there.”

I glare at her then casually toss the paper at the hole five metres away. It falls through it without touching the sides and then I look at her to see what her point is.

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t expect that.”

She gets onto her hands and knees and crawls under the table to retrieve the paper. She gets up, red in the face, and hands it back to me.

“Forget that happened. Try again.”

I toss it even more casually and again it falls through the hole.

“Okay, that’s ridiculous,” Mavis says immediately. “Pretend it didn’t go through.”

“Okay.”

“That’s how difficult this business is. We only sign books and authors that we think are of a high quality. Either that or the kind of shit that will sell anyway because it’s written by a celebrity. We wish that all our new authors could sell millions but of course, most will not sell well.”

“What’s that got to do with you sending a woman to pretend she wants to sleep with me at a sci-fi convention?”

“The point is we need all the tricks we can imagine. I wanted you to create a stir. And it worked!”

“You could have ruined my marriage.”

“I didn’t know you’d tell your wife for God’s sake. Is it that bad?”

“Oh, she’s still going on about it. That’s the only reason I agreed to come in today. I just wanted to get out of the house. Apparently she’s upset because she had to read about it in my blog rather than hear it from me directly. I mean, nothing happened. Not even a kiss. She’s very temperamental.”

“I’m sorry. But this job is getting even harder. There are thousands of books coming out every week. We need to get noticed.”

“The cables are getting smaller.”

“Sorry?”

“Technology means that computer cables are smaller, so the holes in the tables are shrinking. I’m just trying to maintain the metaphor. Analogy. Whatever.”

“Okay. Yes, the hole is shrinking. With more leisure options at their disposal, and as they just become more and more stupid, people are choosing to read novels less. Most young men can barely manage to make it through Nuts magazine once a week, let alone ninety thousand words of science fiction.”

“Fine. We’ll do what the new rock bands are doing. We’ll throw off the shackles of the controlling corporations and go our own way.”

“Well, a band can give their music away for free and still make their money playing tours. Unfortunately for authors, the product is all you have. Sure, you can publish for free to the three people who might flick through it on their Kindle, but where do you go from there?”

“Good point.”

“Anyway, according to my mole you caused quite the scene.”

“To be honest, I don’t remember much about it.”

Mavis pulls out a sheaf of torn-out notepad pages. “She sent me her notes.”

“I don’t really want to know, Mavis.”

She ignores me and begins to read. “’Christopher tripped up the steps to the platform, grabbed the mic, and then called everyone in the room a…’ I don’t like to use this word, but ‘a cunt.’”

“That’s just my thing,” I protest, rubbing my eyes. “I come out and I affectionately address the crowd with ‘Hello cunts.’”

“Actually,” Mavis says, squinting at the notes. “Apparently you went round everyone in the room individually, pointing them out as you said it.”

“Oh. I was very drunk. But you know that.”

“’He then launched into an unprovoked and utterly inaccurate diatribe against the previous speaker, repeatedly calling her Graham and accusing her of plagiarising Bram Stoker’s Dracula, despite her novel clearly being set in another dimension of the fictional planet Erreptiguskularindusspal featuring nothing remotely approaching vampires.’”

“Yeah, yeah, but how was the reading?”

“You never got around to it. ‘Christopher dropped his notes and then used the microphone stand to stamp on them as though they were on fire until being led away by security. He consumed almost half of his whisky bottle during these ten minutes.’ I think she meant the contents of the bottle. I hope.”

“So I assume I behaved exactly the way you intended?”

“Absolutely. You’re playing to your strengths.”

“Yes, but here’s the problem, Mavis. There were about twenty-seven people in the audience.”

“Word spreads.”

“Nuneaton is hardly the epicentre of literary culture. No offence to anyone who lives there, but everyone who lives there is thick. Can’t you get me one in London?”

“Word doesn’t spread in London anymore. Everyone speaks a different language.”

“Then I’m fucked.”

“Hey, Clear History has a great cover. That really helps.”

“And are people going to see the cover in the shops? Or is it just going to be two copies hidden spine-out in the nether regions of a cavernous Waterstone’s?”

Mavis thinks about this. “We’ll have some posters done up. Shops might like them.”

“I’d like one.”

“Then it will all be worth it.”

She stands up so I do too. “I take it this meeting is over?”

“If you don’t mind. I have James Hardy coming in and I have to prepare.” She smiles like a giddy schoolgirl.

I frown. “How small is the hole for him?”

“It’s like throwing a ping pong ball into a swimming pool,” she says with obvious relish.

“In high wind?”

“The conditions are perfectly calm.”

“Lucky bastard,” I say, and I leave the Hammersmith building for home, stopping at a florist for a dozen roses in an attempt to keep Cheryl quiet for a few hours.

Free Counter

Sullied By Childbirth...

2008-09-03T02:20:00.002+01:00

From the fetid, rank, depressing confines of a sci-fi convention in Nuneaton appears a young woman of stunning beauty. Relatively.

She’s actually about my age, perhaps older, and glamorous rather than beautiful, but she bursts through the cloud cover of black Metallica and Warhammer t-shirts like a Supernova localised in the Travelodge cafeteria. When I recover from the shock I go back to flicking through the rail of seventies movie posters that I have no intention of purchasing but I have another four hours to fill before my reading and Q&A session. I have been given a small amount of cash by Mavis at Harper Collins to get ‘tanked up’ before I take the makeshift plywood stage at ten pm.

“Excuse me,” the woman says and I turn, already reaching for my pocket in anticipation of a request for a felt-tip pen, which for some reason these nerdy cretins fail to carry around with them despite seeking the autograph of everyone remotely connected with anything they may have heard of. I have signed six programs so far because I am wearing my ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ t-shirt and people have recognised my name from the listings. The woman points at the shirt. “Are you the actual Christopher Hardy or just someone wearing his t-shirt?”

“The one and only,” I say.

“Wow. It’s really nice that you mingle with the punters before your performance.”

“Why?” I say, panicked. “Is it not the done thing?”

“It’s okay,” she says, somewhat alarmed by my reaction. “There isn’t really a done thing. I don’t think many authors do it, though.”

“Damn it,” I say. “You don’t understand. My entire life is constructed as an attempt to fit in. The way I dress, my hair, my voice, they’re all just there to blend in with everything else. Well, except for this t-shirt, of course. But that’s justifiable irony. I can’t be doing anything that causes me to stand out.”

“Right,” the woman says, nodding and trying not to look freaked out. I push on to show her how normal I can be.

“What the hell are you doing here? You don’t look like a sci-fi nerdlinger.”

“Thank you. Neither do you. Except, of course…”

“…For the t-shirt,” we say together and then laugh and I grit my teeth.

“Actually I work in publishing so I’m here on business.”

“Jesus. You must be low on the totem pole to be sent here.”

“Well…Assignments are handed out on a rota basis, really.”

“Oh. I’m sure you’re very good at your job.”

“I am,” she says. “Do you fancy a drink?”

We sit at the hotel bar and she buys us pints and insists on shots as well. I am weak.

“How do you know me?” I ask her.

“I read a short article about your novel in a magazine. It sounded intriguing. When’s it out?”

“October the sixteenth.”

“Are you excited?”

“Impatient. I just want it to be out. It’s been such a long wait.”

“Well, you’re guaranteed at least one sale.”

“Who?”

“Me. I shall buy a copy.”

“You won’t regret it. Unless you don’t like it, of course. Actually, best play it safe and just not buy it. I can’t stand the thought of wasting people’s time and money.”

“Such a good salesman.”

She has finished her drink so I drain mine and order another two beers.

“Let’s try a different shot this time,” she says. “Two tequilas barkeep.”

“Easy,” I say. “My per diem is only twenty-five pounds.”

“Put your money away,” she says. “I’ve got an expense account.”

Four beers and four shots later we are leaning into each other as we start a new round, legs pressed together and hands placed on thighs as the alcohol washes away inhibition and we talk without pause about everything and nothing, genuinely eager to discover each other. I have set the alarm on my watch to make sure I don’t miss my slot.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks, looking at the ring on my finger.

“She’s in London. She turned down the chance to discover Nuneaton.”

“Do you have a good marriage?”

“I could lie and say no.”

“I don’t want you to lie.”

“Events like this are rare, though.”

“Like what?”

“Actually talking to a woman. It seems like there’s no point in going out when you’re married, you know? When you’re single you can walk into a bar on any given night and think, conceivably, I could take one of these girls home tonight. There’s always that possibility. When you’re married that part of your life disappears. You might as well just stay in.”

“Some married men still go out to meet women.”

“Lucky them.” I swallow my vodka and then some of my beer. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been sullied by childbirth?”

“No.”

I try to avoid her seductive gaze.

Two rounds later she tells me, unprompted, that The Velvet Underground and Nico is her favourite album and so when she nuzzles my neck I don’t push her away. One more round and I am leading her up to my room. We stumble into the lift and she holds my hand and just looks at me and I look at her legs.

In the room I nervously keep my back to her and dig a bottle of Scotch out of my bag that I have brought in case the bar was closed or something equally terrifying. I ignore her as she approaches me, pretending to read the label even though it is replicated in triple on my retinas.

Her arms wrap around me. “Oh,” I say. “It’s a blend of 42 Scottish malt and grain whiskies.”

“Christopher,” she whispers.

“Yes, love?” She pushes me onto the bed and I roll onto my back. “Clumsy.”

“I want you,” she says. “We have time before your reading.” She runs her hand up the inside of my thighs.

“Not sure what Cheryl would say,” I squeak.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“We haven’t even opened the bottle.”

“What if I just suck your cock? You don’t even have to touch me. You didn’t have a choice…”

“You’re making this increasingly difficult to be good.”

“You invited me up to your room. You knew what you were doing. You want me.”

“It would be fantastic to take your clothes off. Probably. But…”

“Say that you want me.” She takes her shirt off.

“Yep,” I say immediately. I look at my trouser bulge. “Look, we’re both answering.”

She crawls up me and unbuttons my fly. I lean back.

“Oh God.”

I don’t feel anything for a few seconds and when I open my eyes and look up she has put her shirt back on. “Err…Anything the matter?”

“I have to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to go.” She looks at her watch. “I have a taxi waiting to take me to my hotel.”

I sit up, trying to comprehend. “What? Why?”

“I’ve done my job.” She sits down and puts her shoes on. I didn’t notice them come off.

“What the fuck?” I say less kindly.

She stands up again. “Mavis sent me. She wanted to make sure you got nice and fucked up.”

“Mavis?”

She nods.

“But why did you bring me up here?”

“She wanted you all riled up. She wants a good performance. Don’t forget the Scotch.”

She leaves and I sit on the bed for awhile, deflating, before I open the bottle with its satisfying clicks. When my alarm goes off the bottle makes it up on stage with me. I think.

Burning Effigies At The Drop Of A Hat...

2008-08-16T20:13:00.002+01:00

On the days not spent at TV shopping channels I’ve been hanging around the Harper Collins offices, spending time in the different departments and trying to be dazzling and memorable. When the workers look as though their tolerance of my presence is ebbing away, I try to make myself useful. What starts with a polite offer to take a parcel from one office to another culminates in a two-hour stint at a photocopier for one of the secretaries while she enjoys an extended break in the coffee room, and I begin to suspect that they are taking advantage of me. When Doris the cleaner trundles up to me with a mop and bucket and asks if I could give the women’s toilets ‘a quick going over,’ although the opportunity of a leisurely examination of the different machines and bins is momentarily intriguing, I decline and revaluate my tactics.

I swing by my publicists’ office, which still requires a steely will on my part. In my nightmares the windows are covered in ancient cobwebs and a cauldron boils in the centre of the room but in the mid-afternoon reality there is only the lingering musty odour of decay that could just be a coincidentally dead animal of some kind nearby.

Mavis is there alone, muttering to herself as she does something strange behind the desk. I cough and linger in the doorway and she looks up and quickly closes a drawer. “Christopher.”

I force a smile and take a few cautionary steps into the office. Mavis is masterminding my forthcoming ‘Drunken Public Appearances’ campaign, which so far consists of two fifteen minute slots at sci-fi conventions in the Midlands. “I had a new idea,” I tell her.

“Always appreciated. What’s your plan?”

“I could make a few religiously offensive comments and get some dramatic-looking protests against me going in the streets of Asia. Those people burn effigies at the drop of a hat.”

“What kind of comments?”

“I don’t know. Muhammad sucks donkey dicks, some Hindu Goddess is a slut. Maybe get some cartoons going, they don’t seem to like them.”

She sighs. “I don’t think selling a few more copies of your book is necessarily worth having our worldwide offices firebombed, Christopher. But thanks for the idea.”

“I’ll keep thinking,” I say, and then on my way out, my agent Sid phones me with some good news so I head to my editor’s office for some subtle gloating.

He barely looks up from his piles of papers. “Next time you should clean the copier before using it,” he says, flicking through some pages. “It’s nice that you’re helping out around here but look, there’s a dark smudge on every one of these.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You all set for the big release?” he says. “Going to have a little party with all your sci-fi mates? Maybe dress up as different characters from the book?”

“I might be going to Europe.”

“You are in Europe.”

“Proper Europe.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Sid has sold the book in Germany and Poland. My words are going to be translated.”

I have Chris’ full attention for the first time. “Sid has?”

“I know, I can hardly believe it myself. Apparently I have an advance magically winging its digital way into my bank account as we speak.”

“Sid did?”

I shrug. “He must have something over publishers there too. So it seems the Poles do read, which makes it even more of a shame that the Ealing community seems against me.”

“Well, that’s good news, anyway. Congratulations. Make sure you tell Mavis and Pauline.”

The thought of going back there makes me cold. “I’ll email them.”

Another man walks quickly into the office and hands a file to Chris. “No rush. Just look them over when you get a chance.”

“No problem,” Chris says. “Oh, Bradley. You should meet Christopher, the author of Clear History.”

Bradley shakes my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Chris looks at me. “If we publish a second novel then Bradley will take over as your editor.”

“Right.”

“No, that’s not true,” Bradley says. “Harper Collins always keeps the same editor on series’. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go through some upheaval. Got to get a move on, I’m afraid. Nice to meet you.”

He leaves and Chris slumps behind his desk, eyes glazed and staring at nothing. I lean forward. “That is good news. As soon as I get home I’m going to send you the first hundred pages of the follow-up. I’m going to send you all my notes as well and you can tell me what you think. Of everything.”

Chris looks at me. “We’ll see how the book sells.” It is almost a threat.

I nod. “We’ll see how it sells in Germany and Poland.”

I stand up to leave. “Hang on,” Chris says. “Sid sold the rights?”

“We’ve been through this.”

“No, but…Harper Collins owns the worldwide rights.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That was the contract Sid approved and you signed.” He taps at his computer. “Here’s the press release. We even have the US rights. What a contract!”

Now I stare at him in shock. “And is Harper translating it into German and Polish?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t appear to be any plans yet.”

“I can’t believe that man.”

“I wouldn’t spend that advance just yet.” He picks up his phone. “I have to warn the relevant parties. I suggest that you sort this out before it becomes a real problem.”

I point upwards. “It’s like God can’t stand anything going well for people that don’t believe in him.” I walk out of his office.

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” he calls.

“I know,” I shout from the corridor on the way to a pub.

Shrink In Cold Water...

2008-08-09T06:52:00.005+01:00

Hours after exercising for the first time in awhile, before the damage is felt and you spend the next few days unable even to scratch your nose without wincing, you feel just great. You bounce down the high street lighter than air, strutting confidently through the crowds with saucy smiles at the pretty ladies, feeling fit and healthy and attractive. Then you catch sight of yourself in a shop window and you stop and stare in shock, oblivious to the businessman who clatters into you from behind with a loud tut. You have not, as you assumed, instantly transformed into a svelte buff Adonis with a flat stomach and chiselled jaw line. You look, in fact, much as you did that morning. Overweight, pudgy, blobby. Not obese, not by a long shot. But the bulges are there, the ones that never existed when you were twenty-four and drinking beer rather than whiskey every night, for Christ’s sake. How can this be? You’ve just been through Hell.

It’s my fourth week of swimming and before I head into the pool I study myself in the mirror. I think it may be having an effect but since Cheryl broke our bathroom scales (water, not weight) I cannot be sure. I only have to raise my hands to my forehead to look normal now, but when they are by my sides I still wobble and jostle. And so I walk into the pool with my towel apparently casually, but actually artfully, draped over my shoulders to hide some of the excess flesh. It is late morning on a weekday and most of the men here, presumable un- or casually employed, seem to spend their spare time working on pumping up their bodies. The women do not. There is nothing to look at here. Apparently only middle-aged fat women have the time to swim. They do so with excruciating slowness and presumably only so that they can ogle the men in their tight Speedos clinging to impressive packages that, judging from the shower room afterwards, don’t even shrink in cold water.

I go in the fast lane and we pound up and down the ropes. I keep up with them all, breathing every three strokes and tumble-turning, at least until I run out of breath and then I cling to the wall after every length, gasping for air. But this renews me and the boys in the fast lane swim so fast that we send the water into a churning, pulsating wave machine. Those in the adjacent lanes almost drown in our wake. We push until our muscles and lungs are ready to burst and our wrists almost snap when we crash into the walls. When we have finished the water level will have dropped by three feet.

My goggles, inevitably, mist up, and swimmers coming the other way loom into view like ships in thick fog. And, startlingly, one of them is wearing a pink bikini. At the end of the length I stop and rinse out my goggles. On the second pass she looks slim and pretty, even with a rubber hat. On the third length I am already catching her up and the fact that she is slow in the fast lane makes me annoyed with her as well as intrigued and excited, which is confusing. On the fourth I am behind her almost immediately and as people are coming in the other direction and I cannot overtake, I switch to breaststroke and stay just two feet behind her. I am staring right into her, at the thin band of material then runs over the most intimate parts of her, everything rounded and pivoting in front of me, and even though it is not of my planning, I feel shamed somehow. When she stops to let me pass I stop too to rinse my goggles, but regret it because she is looking at me accusatorily. To distract her I look down at her bikini top, and even though it has only dropped a little on one side, I nod at it and tell her that she has popped out.

She drops down under the water up to her neck, grabbing for her top. “God. How embarrassing,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“It does to me.”

“Come on,” I say with what I imagine might be a knowing smile. “I think we both knew from the instant we first laid eyes on each other that I was going to see them sooner or later. Why wait?”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus.” She lowers her goggles and pushes off, and I am stuck behind her again, keeping my eyes on the lines on the floor.

I climb out after a mile – a proper mile, not a swimmer’s – and I can barely walk straight. I cover myself with my towel and when my vision clears I look back at my lane and realise that the man I was so proud of keeping up with is in fact swimming with a float between his legs and those resistance paddles that threaten to slice your fingers off if you nick them on the way past.

I get home and read on the couch for awhile and then close my eyes and fall into the kind of nap that leaves you feeling half dead for twenty minutes and then so good that you reminisce about it for the rest of the day. Cheryl is back from work when I stumble into the bedroom.

“You’re always here,” I tell her. “How can I ever bring a woman back if you’re always here?”

“Go to hers,” she says without looking up from the computer. “And stay there ‘cos you’re not coming back here.”

“You’re so fucking square,” I say, sitting on the bed. She is looking up properties on the Isle of Wight. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just exploring our options for when we get rich.”

“Have you invested in some amazing stocks I’m unaware of?”

“When your book reaches its first million sales we’ll buy a house.”

I sigh. “It must be nice living in your little world. I must visit one day. Besides, I thought we said Cornwall.”

“I thought the Cornish hated outsiders because we’re taking their houses and pricing them out of their own county and that they think they’re their own country when in fact they should accept that they’re just a small part of England and they should just shut up and run the pasty shops.”

“Cheryl! Some of my best friends are Cornish. You shouldn’t talk that way.”

“You told me that. In fact, you shouted it to me in a pub in Cornwall just before closing time, jabbing your finger at the locals.”

“Oh. How did they react?”

“A couple of them told you to fuck off.”

“See? Proved my point.”

It is two months until my novel is published, and yet this is how I spend my days. Tomorrow I’m working until five am on Sky’s studio coverage of a West Coast basketball game that will probably go to Overtime. It is, in a word, very strange.

"The Best Pubs In The World Are In The East End..."

2008-08-01T19:55:00.002+01:00

Sid appears to be sniffing the air as he says this. “In another life I’d like to have my own place on Brick Lane. I’d be like Sam on Cheers.”

“I’d be your Norm.”

“I see you more as Cliff.”

“No one ever gets drunk on Cheers.”

We are two-thirds of the way through our third pints and we are both slowing down because we don’t want to leave.

Reluctantly, Sid brings us closer to the inevitable. “I’m happy to drive you home but we’ll have to leave after this.”

“I know.”

“We can stay but we’d have to get the tube…”

“It’s stupid to leave your car here and have to get it in the morning. We’ll go now.”

It’s decided so we finish the drinks and visit the gents. At the exit, Sid stops suddenly. There are three average-looking girls at a table. Apparently Sid thinks otherwise. “Oh my God,” he says, licking his lips. “Let’s get the tube.”

“What are you going to do, Sid? Ask them out? Take them home? Come on, let’s go.”

“Hey, I’m a world class girl watcher.”

I follow him to the bar and he orders two more pints. He points at where we were sitting. “Look, our table’s taken.”

“So?”

“All the tables are taken. But I bet we could squeeze onto the end of theirs.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows? Come on, you ask them, you’ve got a ring so they’ll think it’s innocent.”

When I ask them though, I keep my left hand in my pocket and they are polite enough to let us sit at the table and then I lean forward to chat to Sid but he is leering at the girls with a childish smile plastered on his face and eventually the girl next to him is forced to talk to him. “What do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a literary agent,” he tells them. “And Christopher here is a writer. A novelist.”

“Really?” they say and we’re off and Sid buys them drinks and shots which they refuse and so we do theirs as well as ours and by the end of the night I have kept my hand under the table and asked all three of the girls in turn for their phone numbers.

“I just heard you ask both of my friends,” the third girl says.

“That was just practise,” I slur. “You’re the one I really like.”

Sid is knocking drinks over and buying more and when the girls ask us to leave we refuse and get rowdier and the bouncers are escorting us out and Sid pushes one of them and gets thrown on his arse onto the pavement.

I walk towards the tube but Sid goes the other way and I stop. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you home.”

It seems like a good idea but we are immediately lost and I squint at his A-Z London, trying to make out the meaningless shapes on the page under moving patches of light from the passing street lamps. When I realise that I have been holding the book upside down I throw it in the back seat. “Try to find the A4,” I say.

“What’s an A4?” he says.

We pull away at a green light and the car leaps into the air. “Shit,” I say.

“Shit,” he says. “What was that?”

I look back. “I think you drove over a kerb in the middle of the road.”

“A kerb?”

“A divider.”

“I didn’t see it. Did you see it?” I shake my head. “That is so dangerous.”

“Are your lights on?”

“I’m not sure.” He leans forward. “No.” He switches them on. Our vision does not improve. The lights were not the problem.

I turn down the stereo. “What is that noise?”

It was a rumbling, crunching grinding.

“I don’t know.” He turns the stereo back up.

We are lost in the Docklands, then deeper in the heart of Tower Hamlets. “If we just drive in a straight line at least we’ll get to the M25,” I say.

“I can’t find a straight line,” he says.

Shadowy figures are staring at us from the side of the road. “Are you sure the car is alright?”

Sid looks at me. “It’s okay if I hold the wheel upside down.”

“Upside down?” Sid had his arms wrapped around each other, fighting to keep the steering wheel in some position that it should not be. The grinding noise is now louder than the stereo and the car is bouncing as though the wheels are square.

“Maybe I have a puncture?” Sid suggests.

“I think there’s something seriously wrong.”

“It’s okay. Where the fuck are we?”

“I don’t know.”

People are running after us in the street now. “I think you should stop.”

Sid suddenly pulls over and scrapes along the kerb. We both stumble out of the car and stand unsteadily in the night air. Sid tries to look at the front wheels. “Christopher. I don’t think there’s any tire here.”

I lean over on my side. “Nor here.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been driving around on the alloys.” The wheels are smoking.

Three men who may be tramps reach us, out of breath. “You guys are crazy,” one of them says. “Didn’t you see the sparks shooting out of your car?”

“I thought they were in my head,” Sid says.

The tramps look at the damage. “Have you got a spare?”

Sid nods. “It’s okay. We’ll change it.”

“What are you going to do about the other one?”

Sid shrugs. “Call the AA?”

The head tramp waves him away. “We’ll sort it out.”

“It’s okay,” Sid tries again. But the tramps are already getting the wheel out of the boot and jacking up the car.

He pulls me away. “Shit. They’re going to want money.”

“Fuck ‘em,” I say quietly.

“Oh yeah, right. Do you have any cash?” I shake my head. “Stay here with them. I’m going to find an ATM.”

He shuffles off and I wait with the tramps. One of them takes a swig from a bottle of something. “Let me have a shot,” I say.

Reluctantly he hands me the bottle and I take a couple of swallows. They pass it round. Sid returns just as they finish changing the tire. “Here’s thirty quid for your trouble,” he tells them, handing the money to the head tramp.

“Let’s go find you another one,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Sid says.

“I’ve got a friend nearby with the same car. He won’t mind.”

“Okay,” Sid says. He heads off with two of the tramps and the tools. The other one stays with me but I crawl into the back seat and pass out.

Sid shakes me awake. “Have you got any cash?” he says.

“No,” I tell him again.

“They want a hundred for the wheel. I don’t have any more money in my account.”

I get out of the car. Somehow they have put the new wheel on without waking me. “One hundred pounds parts and labour,” the head tramp confirms.

“What happens when their friend wakes up to find his wheel gone?” I ask Sid.

“I’m not convinced they knew the owner,” Sid says. “I think we just walked until we found another Beetle.”

I lead them to the ATM, cursing them. I put my card in the slot. “Give me that,” I say to the tramp with the bottle, grabbing it and taking another swig. It takes me three attempts to enter my pin correctly.

When we drive off Sid still has to hold the wheel in the wrong position. “I can’t drive this,” he says. He has sobered up a little.

We pull into a twenty-four hour service station and Sid calls the AA. I pass out again and am woken up by the tow truck man wrapping chains around the axels. He calls us stupid sons of bitches as he takes us to Sid’s house.

His mother wakes me up on the living room sofa by rubbing her wet hands over my face. It is just as well. I have to be at Bid TV by 10 o’clock.

So Many Women, So Little Chance...

2008-07-24T22:31:00.004+01:00

Six months ago I went into Borders on Charing Cross Road to see which authors my book would nestle between on the shelves. But after a few seconds in the sci-fi section I was red and sweating with embarrassment and I fled out of the shop and into Soho and relieved my trembling with liquor.

Today though, I am wearing one of five ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ T-shirts that I had a local printing shop knock up. In about thirty seconds from the look of them. But the point is made; a very childish, unfocused point vaguely taking the piss out of Harper Collins for pigeon-holing me into a genre, but a point nonetheless. Unfortunately it’s a joke that about five people on Earth might understand.

That quickly drops to four when I meet my agent Sid for a pub lunch and he grins broadly. “Hey, that’s fantastic! Can I have one?” I pull one out of my bag and toss it to him because I suspected, depressingly, that he wouldn’t get it.

“That’s great advertising,” he says, when I get back from the bar. He had been sitting without a drink and made no effort to buy a round. “We should get one for everyone we know.”

“How about a sandwich board?” I suggest. “We could put one on your mother and just let her wander the streets all day.”

“Yeah…” He strokes his chin and actually contemplates it. “The trouble is, people tend to assume sandwich boarders are mad.”

“Well, your mum is mad.”

“Yeah. It wouldn’t work.” He sips his pint. “That’s a shame. A shame.”

I look around for famous media types but I don’t think they drink in the John Snow. “How did you tear yourself away from work?”

“Things were a bit quiet today to be honest.”

“When are they ever not quiet, Sid?”

He ignores me. “I’m looking to supplement my income.”

“How?”

“I need to find a girlfriend with a job.”

“I suppose that’s one way.”

“I spent the morning hanging around outside the Stockwell Refugee Women’s Centre.”

I shake my head. “Why?”

“They won’t let me in.”

“I mean…” I shout, then I take a breath and a gulp of my drink. Then, in a level voice, “I mean, why not join a dating agency?”

“Nah. Think of how desperate those people must be. Who wants to meet desperate people? Better for me to hang outside the refugee centre.”

“Right.”

“I’ve got a great spot on a park bench across the street. I can see them all coming in and out. There’re some real boilers of course, but also some beautiful slim Eastern European types. And some lovely Asians. Ah, I can’t decide who to approach.”

“I think either way the end result will be the same.”

“Think how grateful they’ll be. I’ll give them a place to live, they’ll be allowed to stay in the country. And then I’ll send them out on a little cleaning job or something. Perfect.”

“I can’t see a flaw.”

“Well, there is one. I don’t want to end up with one who’s had any female genital mutilation. Apparently it’s a problem with some of them.” He sighs. “That’ll be a tough subject to broach.”

I finish my beer. “I think I need something stronger,” I say.

I come back with whiskeys. Sid hands me something in a plastic bag. I unwrap it and hold my book.

“It’s the page proof. It’s not finalised, but it’s similar to what will end up in the shops.”

I stroke the cover and then flick through the pages. There is no THE END on the last page. It feels like an indication that there will be a second book. I ask Sid what he thinks.

“I think if I had to bet I would say that there will be another. They like their series’.”

“Then what are they waiting for?”

“Well, if the reviews and the sales are both dreadful then they might pass.”

“Why would the reviews be dreadful?”

“They might think it’s rubbish.”

“Oh God. What if it is?”

“I don’t think it is. But if it sells then it doesn’t matter.”

“Right. I’m going to do some promotion. I’m going to do those stupid conventions. I’ll do reading groups.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will. At the moment I spend my life in my flat playing Mario Kart and pushing sofa cushions back into place. I want it to be a bestseller.”

“I think Dan Brown and that Harry Potter woman have got that list sewn up for the next eight years.”

“I can try, dammit. I just don’t see why Harper can’t do more.”

“They’ve got their favourites. And for whatever reason, whether it’s your belligerence, your writing, or the genre, you ain’t one of them.”

We finish our drinks. Neither of us orders food.

Back at home I lie on my living room floor turning every page of the proof and smelling the print. It feels like something significant, even if what’s written there isn’t that good. I can’t tell anymore.

Then the phone rings. A young woman introduces herself. “I understand that you’ve worked with Dave Rock JR.”

“Yes. I think he used to freelance at Bid a year ago.”

“Well we’ve been using him on the cricket. We’ve got a Caribbean tour starting in September and Dave can’t do it. He recommended you highly and says you’re a great camera op. Would you be available? It will be for three months.”

“Three months?”

“Yes, from late September until mid-December.”

I rub my head and sigh. “I have a book coming out in October.”

“Oh right,” she says, totally uninterested. “So…”

“I’d love to but I have to do promotion…”

“Okay, no problem,” she says.

“Maybe next time?”

“Yes, I’ll keep you in mind,” she lies and hangs up.

I push the book and the phone away and lie flat on the floor with my nose breathing up carpet dirt, unable to move.

"Are You Keeping Fit?"

2008-07-16T23:07:00.002+01:00

Not a particularly unusual question, except that it wasn’t what I was expecting as the opening gambit on my first live radio interview. Cheryl and I had rehearsed for an hour or so last night, going over a few questions we thought might come up, but this was not one that we had practised.

The pressure is low because this a local Internet radio station with a tiny audience, albeit an audience who may well prove receptive to a local success story. But when Mandy, the pixie-like PA meets me at reception I tell her that I am impressed by the size of the setup. I nod at the dozens of people storming around holding clipboards and books, and the long queue stretching from the receptionist to the sliding doors.

“Oh no,” she says. “That’s the reception for Ealing Borough Council. We’re off in this side room.” She leads me into a small office with one desk and a door – open – leading to a tiny audio booth where a small, harassed middle-aged man in a tweed jacket is looking through a stack of CDs as though he has no comprehension of what they are for.

I spread my arms. “This is it, then.”

“This is our whole setup,” she confirms. “Nice and laid back.”

“I like it,” I say because it is my turn to say something.

“I’m trying to make it better,” she says. “More professional. Sometimes it seems that no one except me is too bothered.”

“Do what you can and move on,” I say.

She nods and from nowhere there is an unexpectedly sticky atmosphere of mutual attraction. She looks at my ring finger. “You’re married,” she says, giving a rueful smile.

“This?” I say, holding my finger up. “This is just an unfortunate birthmark. A 3-D, gold-coloured birthmark. Let’s do dinner and drinks.”

She laughs and turns to the DJ who is holding the back of a CD case inches in front of his face. “Matthew? Our guest is here.”

He looks up. “Send her in.”

Mandy turns back and sighs. “Good luck.” She gestures to the door and I walk through.

The DJ stands up in obvious confusion and holds a hand out. “Oh, hello old chap.”

I shake his hand. “Christopher Hardy,” I say.

“Ah.” He shuffles through some papers and I sit opposite him at one of the two guest mics. “Got yer,” he says.

He reads though his notes and then suddenly looks up at something. He frowns and puts his headphones on. I do the same. There is silence, and probably has been for some time. He pushes a fader up. “That was…” He searches through more papers. “Some music. Now we have our guest of the day. Welcome to Ealing FM!”

“Thank you. I’m Christopher Hardy.”

“Yes you are. Are you keeping fit?”

I am stuck for a second, unsure of how literally to take the question. Am I being stupid? Does it mean something else? I look out of the window and see Mandy gesturing for me to answer. “Well, actually, I have just started swimming again. I’m going a few times a week, doing about a mile each time…”

“Wow, without stopping?”

“No, there’s no need to do that anymore. Just take plenty of breaks and call it Interval training. Essentially I’m doing just enough to feel less guilty about drinking afterwards.”

“So…Clear History.”

“Yep.” He nods at me, smiling. “That’s the name of my book.”

“I was fiddling with my computer the other day…”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And I saw Clear History when I tried to do something or other. Is it named after computers?”

“Erm, well not exactly. I mean, obviously I’m aware of the connection. I suppose that firstly, Clear History sounds good to me. It feels nice to say. And secondly, I like the idea that every time people see it on their computer they will think of the book. Like when people use the phrase Dire Straits, everyone automatically thinks of the band. Or if someone said to me, ‘He’s keeping the Status Quo,’ I could never hear that without singing ‘Whatever you want duh-duh, duh-duh,’ you know?”

He shakes his head. “Status Quo?”

“Yes. The band, famous for their two-chord songs and the ponytails?”

“I’m not familiar. My daughter would probably know. She keeps up to date with all the new groups.” He looks at his notes. “I was intrigued by the press release your publishers sent me. They describe it as ‘sky fi.’ Perhaps you could explain that to us.”

I laugh but he stares at me, straight-faced. “Erm, I think that’s sci-fi, as in science fiction.”

“Oh right, that’s what it stands for. Very clever. Do you like being a sci-fi writer then?”

“Err…sure. I mean, I wrote the book. I suppose I don’t really know why there has to be such a big distinction between genres. People should be able to enjoy all different kind of stories. There certainly isn’t such a big deal made about it in cinema, for instance. Futuristic thrillers are some of the biggest box office draws. It seems that people are more likely to go and watch a sci-fi movie than read a sci-fi book, and I think that partly has to do with the way they’re marketed. I think my book can fit within the sci-fi genre, but it also has elements of action thriller and mystery and suspense. I also like to think that it explores human emotion just as effectively as the majority of novels considered more mainstream.”

Matthew is sorting though papers and there is a period of silence that feels excruciating. Finally he looks up, startled, as though suddenly remembering that he is hosting a radio show.

“What happens in the book, then?”

“Well…the book’s about ninety-thousand words long, so quite a lot happens. I’m not sure I can tell you everything that happens. Perhaps you mean I should give a general overview of the plot?”

“What happens in chapter one?”

I laugh quietly. “There’s a prologue that people can read online, then in chapter one, two of the main characters are introduced. They are two new recruits to the police force of the Company, and they are plunged into a terrible dilemma almost immediately when…”

Matthew looks at the clock on the wall. “Sorry. We have to play a record.”

He plays some soft rock and then we stare at each other across the toy-like mixing desk. “Actually, I’ve got to run,” I say.

“Really?”

I stand up. “Sorry. Commitments.”

He looks downcast. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill the next three hours.”

In the council reception, Mandy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s like he’s just arrived from a distant galaxy and found himself on a radio station. Why don’t you do a show?”

“I don’t really want it on my CV.”

Cheryl is reading a magazine when I get in. “Do you think Amazon’s pre-orders have rocketed up?” I say.

“What happened?”

“What? You didn’t hear it?”

“I couldn’t hear anything. All I could hear was him and you, very distant.”

“The idiot must have forgotten to fade my mic up,” I say, incredulous. “Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t stay for the whole show.”

“Surely someone would have phoned in and told them?”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s watch a DVD.”

"Romanticised Hemmingway Fixation..."

2008-07-10T02:21:00.004+01:00

I assumed that my brother’s visit would be a deathly, crushingly tedious affair, full of unreasonable accusations, tantrums and the dredging of past errors. And God knows what he’d be like. But it’s okay because I have a Wii and so we can sit next to each other and play Mario Kart and not have conversation as the main focus of the afternoon.

Brian was sent over to West London for some reason (try as I might I cannot remember who he works for or what he does – just a tedious office job, I assume) and has used the opportunity not to return to the office (wherever that is). For the first time in fourteen years or so we play together and it is an easy way to get along, cheating really, like taking a first date to the cinema. A quick drink afterwards – who can’t make one drink go well? And who can’t sit and play a video game with someone else if that’s what you’re into? And Brian is into it. He never stopped playing them every night. He owns all the consoles and that is how he spends his evenings.

Except he is still rubbish. He plays every night but he never really got good at any of them. It is not in his make-up to excel. Merely to take part and pass time. We play online together against people from around the world and I don’t even mind that the split screen is making it harder and that my Virtual Ranking is dropping because we are getting on and that is a relief.

We play and talk intermittently, short conversations taking minutes, interspersed with cries of frustration or delight. “Hope I’m not interrupting your writing,” Brian says, using a forced break after driving his kart into some lava as an opportunity to push his glasses up his nose.

“I’m not writing today,” I say. “I only write every other day.”

“How come?”

“I can only write when I drink whiskey but I can’t write at all when I’m hung-over. Today is my recovery day.”

Brian pointed at my can of lager. “But you’re drinking now.”

“Yes. I have to drink enough to sleep but not to feel ill tomorrow. It’s a delicate balancing act. It gets easier with practice.”

“Whiskey!” Brian scoffs. He will sip one glass of bitter over the course of the three hours he is in my house. “That’s just a crutch. Have you got some romanticised Hemmingway fixation?”

“Probably,” I say. “You’ve never been drunk.”

“Maybe I should. What’s the most drunk you’ve ever been?”

“Hmmm. That was probably when I went into some restaurant after the pub. You know some places have a tank where you can select the fish you want them to cook you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I pointed to one – or near one – and said ‘I want that fish please.’ And the man said ‘Sir. That’s just our goldfish bowl.’ There was no way of recovering from that with any dignity. But luckily I was drunk so that wasn’t a concern.”

“Sounds pretty stupid,” Brian says.

“Yes. It is. But you asked me.”

We play in silence for awhile. Then Brian says my name.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“Do you miss Mum?”

“Of course. I know what you’re thinking. Why couldn’t it have been dad, right?”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. I just think it’s important that we do miss her.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. She died before her time.”

“She was overweight, though.”

The race has ended and I look at my brother. “I’m saying this because I care, but Brian, do you think maybe you should shed a few pounds? Do some exercise. Eat a bit less.”

Brian reddens. “How about I keep eating and you keep drinking and we’ll see who dies first?”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a gulp.

“It’s funny. I keep thinking back to something that happened when I was about thirteen. You must have been eleven. Remember she took us to Euro Disney? Just after Dad…moved out.”

“Jesus. It’s been called Disneyland Paris for how long now? And you still call it Euro Disney.”

“That’s what it was called then, dickhead.”

“Sorry, carry on.”

“We got on a shuttle bus to take us back to the hotel. It was crowded and when we got on there was one seat left. Mum tried to sit down but this woman stopped her, talking in French and pointing at this man. The man gestured for Mum to sit down but the woman still stopped her. Then Mum forced her over and sat down and the woman punched her on the arm. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah. That was weird. Mum just ignored her.”

“You were probably too young to do anything, but I should have. I just stood there, frozen. Someone punched my Mum and I did nothing.”

“Well, what could you have done? Leaned over and slapped the woman in the face?”

“Maybe I should have.”

“It happened very quickly, Brian.”

“Even so. What would you do if some girl punched Cheryl?”

“Tell you what. If that ever happens, I’ll call you over and we’ll beat the shit out of her, okay?”

We play in silence for awhile. I feel worse than I let on because I know that we were both a few years older than Brian remembers.

I win a race. Brian comes seventh. “I have a favour to ask,” he says eventually.

“Mmm.”

“I’d like to borrow some money.”

I look at him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just want to do something.”

“If you can’t tell me what for, then, you’re my brother, I’ll do what I can. But it might be nice if you were able to be a little more specific.”

“I need a holiday. I want to get away for a week or two.”

I risk another glance in his direction even though it could send me careering off the track. “Oh really? A holiday? Anywhere nice?”

“The Caribbean, maybe. Anywhere there. I’m not fussy.”

“The Caribbean? Ooh, how lovely.”

“I can sense sarcasm.”

“Oh really? Sorry, I’m just slightly taken aback by someone asking me to fund their tropical beach holiday. You know what most people who want a holiday do? They save up their money for months and months and then pay for it themselves.”

Brian sighed. “Some of us in the family are a little disappointed that you haven’t offered to share some of your success.”

“Success?”

“Okay, you’ve done the all the work, and you deserve it, but Sharon and I weren’t lucky enough to have been born with your talent. And families should stick together. A little sharing with your siblings wouldn’t go amiss, is all I’m saying.”

“Wait. You think I’ve got money? From the book? It isn’t even out yet!”

“Come on, Christopher. You’re having a book published by a major company. There are advances and international sales and stuff. You must be rolling in it. I’ve done my research.”

“Do you know how much my advance was, Brian?” He just looks at me. “Ten thousand pounds. Nothing to be sniffed at, of course. But the days I’ve had to take off from my proper job in the last year to write and re-write mean I’ve made a loss. A significant loss. Why do you think I’d still be living here if I had money?”

Brian looks round at the small flat with damp patches on the wall and the rotting concrete back yard as though this hasn’t occurred to him. “Oh.”

“Mum left enough for a holiday.”

“I don’t want a holiday. I hate holidays. I was just using it as a reason.”

“Listen. If by some miracle my book sells well and I make some money then I will be happy to help out you and Sharon. But in the mean time I have to go into QVC tomorrow and shoot close ups of jewellery until 2am and motivate myself to write on my breaks. Alright?”

“Fair enough.” We carry on playing. “Sharon won’t be happy though. She had her heart set on a new kitchen.”

I shake my head and send a homing missile towards Brian’s kart.

Free Counter

Publicity Juggernaut

2008-07-02T18:51:00.003+01:00

It is just over three months to lift-off, and the publicity juggernaut is revving up.

By that I mean that Pauline has sent me a list of things that I should do. “I see that Black Kids’ second single went straight in at number thirty-six,” she added. “Nice job picking them as the next big thing.”

“Are you marketing them on the side?” I email her back.

Picking an item from the list at random, I call my local library. I have no idea where my local library is, having never belonged to one, but the Internet directs me to Acton. An Indian man answers the phone.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, my name’s Christopher Hardy. I live right by you and I’m having a novel published in a few months.”

“Well bully for you, sir. Why are you telling me this?”

“Err…Well, I thought you might be interested in doing some kind of event for the launch or something.”

“What kind of event do you think we do? It’s a library. We have books and a few CDs that people can come and take out and enjoy. Do you think I have time to organise a party? Perhaps you would like me to heat up some sausage rolls and bake a cake for you?”

“I didn’t think you’d allow food in a library…”

“No we don’t sir. Now please I must get on.”

He hangs up and I cross the item off my list.

To my surprise, the local sales rep agrees to meet me for lunch (on his expense account) in my local pub. I haven’t worked in over three weeks and I would spend an hour with a contestant on The Apprentice if he paid for the meal.

Mick introduces himself with a firm handshake. He is all suit and hair gel and aftershave. I order a burger and a pint and to my disappointment Mick just has a lime soda. “Have a pint,” I urge.

“I spend all day driving around. I gave up boozing altogether soon after I got the job.” We find a table and sit down. “I heard you like your drink. Don’t you worry about your health?”

“Haven’t you heard? The economy is in global meltdown. Pensions and the NHS won’t exist by the time I reach retirement age. Aiming to live a long life is no longer economically viable.”

“But you could save the money you’d spend on alcohol and fund your old age instead.”

“Well, you have a point.” I gulp my beer. “So, how’s the book selling? I’m picturing posters smothering the windows of WH Smith’s, billboards dominating the city streets, a primetime television advertising campaign…”

Mick laughs. “You think that people who watch ITV read books? All I can do is get it into the shops.”

“And have you?”

“Some of them. All the major Waterstones and Borders will have copies. I was surprised that Harper Collins has labelled it sci-fi though. So I insisted on selling it as a futuristic thriller.”

My eyes widen. “You did? That’s great.”

“Yeah. It might have backfired a little.” I wait for him to continue. “I sort of realised that I already had too many straight fiction books and yours might have got a bit lost in the crowd. It was then that I realised why Harper Collins were marketing it as sci-fi. There is method in their madness.” He points his finger and smiles.

“So what’s happening?”

“Well, it lost a bit of ground. The shops were a bit confused. At least when it’s labelled as a particular genre it gets sold in a small section of a shop and has a better chance of being reached by a particular audience. So…it will be in the sci-fi section.”

“But not WH Smith’s?”

“Listen, these book series are slow burners. When the second volume comes out, everyone will want to stock it, as well as back orders of the first.”

“If it sells enough for there to be a second volume.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Has it sold well to the Ealing borough independents?”

“To be honest, the local market really didn’t seem interested. I’ve never had that before. Maybe we can try your hometown. Where did you grow up?”

“Dartford.”

“Dartford? Jesus. I’m not going there.”

“Oh.”

“But apparently Jeff Black up in the North East has been doing well with it.” He jumps up. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“My food hasn’t even got here.”

“Sorry. Got to run. Lots of people are clamouring to see James Hardy’s book.”

Back at the flat, I steel myself and call a local Internet radio station and give my spiel.

“Oh, wonderful,” the girl says. “We’re always looking to get local talent on.”

“Sorry? I mean, yes, excellent.”

“We’d definitely like to get you on for an interview and a reading, if it’s suitable for broadcast.”

“Well that would be great. I mean, I’ll make it clean. What’s your audience size?”

“We’re on the Internet so we have the potential for about four billion people listening at any time.”

“Right. And in actuality?”

“Couple of hundred.”

“Okay. Well let’s do it.”

“Cool. So what type of book is it Christopher?”

“It’s a futuristic…” I trail off, gazing into space.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sci-fi,” I say. “It’s a sci-fi novel.”

Hardy, Christopher, 1976-

2008-06-25T18:44:00.002+01:00

It has now been fifteen days since I last worked.

Usually I love being at home doing nothing. It is wonderful to earn enough to survive on a couple of day’s work a week and have the freedom to laze about the flat reading, watching DVDs, drinking wine before dinnertime. Yet, because I have literally no work lined up at any point in the future, every thing I do is tinged with an edge of anxiety and guilt. I should be doing more to find freelance camera work rather than waiting for phone calls from existing employers. But cold calling companies is the most depressing and generally pointless action I can think of. So I put up with the anxiety and guilt, because it is easier.

Wimbledon is on. I hate Wimbledon. Hate it hate it hate it. Which is strange because tennis is my favourite sport and Wimbledon is the greatest sporting event on our planet. Perhaps I should say, I hate being in England when Wimbledon is on. All the pathetic wonky-toothed old wankers in their Union Jack hats and shirts waving flags. At least there’s less of that now that Henman has retired and we have a Scot as the only possible British winner. It would be nice if Murray won, but the public would still be waiting for the next Englishman even as they applauded the embarrassingly filthy-mouthed brat.

For the vast majority of Brits, tennis simply does not exist outside of these two weeks. Which is fine. Who wants to follow forty-eight weeks of largely mute men in baseball caps slugging a piece of furry rubber over a net? Well, some of us do. But the others, the Great British Public, suddenly feel they have a right to an opinion on tennis, basing all their information on one fortnight. And, of course, all they do is complain. In their ignorance, one of our greatest individual sportsman in years was largely maligned by the “sports fans” for being a loser, a failure, rather than the gloriously brave last-of-the-serve-and-volleyers swashbuckling his way through a field of more talented and powerful players year after year. The truth is the fat, burger-munching moaning cynical public don’t deserve a British champion any more than they deserve us to win the World Cup.

Today I shower and then study myself in the mirror with masochistic scrutiny. I practise a tennis player fist pump and try to find a way that doesn’t make me look foolish. My flab wobbles slightly. I raise my hands and lace my fingers behind my head. If my body could just look like this all the time I would feel okay.

I fiddle with iTunes for a while and then open a book by Martin Amis I’ve been reading for five months. After a few sentences I absently scan the first few pages when something gives me the chills. I grab my phone and dial my editor at Harper Collins.

“Chris speaking.”

“It’s Christopher Hardy here,” I say.

There is a pause, during which I imagine he mouths obscenities at the wall. Then, “What’s up, Christopher?”

“Will my book have Hardy, Christopher, 1976- ?”

“Will it what?”

“On the copyright thingy page, will it say my name with the year of my birth and then a dash? I find it rather ominous.”

“I really don’t know. Why does it bother you?”

“It’s an unnecessary reminder of the inevitability of death. It’s like someone’s waiting with a pen poised over the page waiting to ink in the year of my demise.”

“You think that it somehow jinxes you? That you might die before your time?”

“It’s creepy.”

“I really have no idea how that decision is arrived at, Christopher. I’m very busy.” I say nothing until he is forced to say “Goodbye” and hang up.

I have been fairly good about writing my second novel. I try to get at least two hundred words down a day. Today, though, as soon as I get into some sort of zone, a call from my agent Sid interrupts me. I think about pushing ‘reject’ but the spell is already broken.

“What’s the news?” I bark.

“Oh, nothing.” He yawns and instantly brings me down. “Just ringing for a chat.”

“I’m in the middle of writing actually.”

“Oh great, great,” he says, totally uninterested. “I’m just in the office, milling around.”

“You haven’t got anything to do?”

“Not really. Things are quite quiet this week.”

“Why go into the office at all? Why not just stay at home and keep your mobile on?”

“Well, my mum’s moved in and she’s senile so I’m looking after her.”

“What, she’s moved into the office?”

“No, no, she’s at home. I can’t stand being around her twenty-four hours a day so the office is really an escape.”

“Who looks after during the day?”

“No one. I just lock the doors and windows so she can’t get out. I put some music on quite loud so that she doesn’t bother the neighbours. She’s fine. I just clean her up when I get home and comfort her a bit and it’s okay.” He yawns again and I can hear him stretching. “Keeping yourself busy?”

“Just trying to write. Doddering around.”

“Do you get bored?”

“I don’t know. How do you know when you’re bored?”

“When you start going to the toilet for something to do, it’s time to get out of the house.”

“Then I’m not bored. I like doing nothing.”

“Me too. I need to get some furniture for Mum’s stuff but I can’t be bothered.”

“Just order from Ikea or something.”

“I can’t afford Ikea. I was thinking of going more downmarket. Perhaps…Pikea.” He giggles.

“Jesus,” I say, smiling. “How long have you been waiting to use that?”

“About three weeks.”

“I think this is a good time to end the conversation,” I say. “Good bye.”

I try to write for a few minutes but the football is on soon and I’m tired of thinking and I have made an effort at least. Cheryl will be home soon. She is upset because yesterday, as I was calling her mobile, she had an ironic car crash while trying to clamp her Bluetooth headset to her ear. When she got home (it is still driveable) I told her that I hadn’t renewed the car insurance and I kept up the joke for a good couple of hours, long after she had burst into tears and I had become scared to admit the truth. Almost twenty-four hours later, she is still sulking. I should put some clothes on and get some £3.99 flowers from the petrol station. But the thought of putting socks on bores me so instead I lie down in front of Wimbledon and try not to get annoyed.

"The End..."

2008-06-19T21:51:00.003+01:00

My editor, Chris, actually moves his hand sideways as he says this as though the words will appear in the air.

“A writer’s favourite two words to write,” Sid, my agent, says. “I imagine.”

“You’re correct,” I, the writer, tell him. “For the second book I wrote those first just to experience the joyful elation they bring. Unfortunately I still had eighty thousand words to write.”

“Why didn’t you write them for the first book?” Chris asks.

“What do you mean?”

We’re sitting in the café that has become our regular meeting place in the last three months. Not that we meet often. Chris has James Hardy to worry about. He leans forward. “Clear History. The book we’re actually publishing now.”

“What about it?”

“’The End.’ Why didn’t you put that at the end of the manuscript?”

I shrug. “What’s the point? I mean, if you get to the end of a book and you don’t know it’s the end then you’ve got serious problems. It’s pretty fucking obvious when you’ve reached the end of a book. There’re no more pages for a start.”

“Unless they’ve been ripped out,” Sid suggests.

“Good point.”

Chris zones out now when Sid and I talk to each other. He tries again. “Reaching the end of a good novel is the most satisfying experience any consumer of art can enjoy.”

“What about Christopher’s book?” Sid cracks.

Chris ignores him. “Much more satisfying than the end of a film or LP or anything else.”

“I dunno,” I say. “Completing a difficult video game can be intensely rewarding.”

“Perhaps,” Chris sighs. “Look, I’m just concerned that people reaching the end of the book, however many or few that may be, might not experience the full joy of finally getting through it.”

Sid laughs, but I don’t think he really knows why.

Chris ignores him again. “The end of the novel is a touch…ambiguous. ‘The End’ will help them close their relationship with your book.”

“The way it ends emphasises the futility of war and religion,” I say.

“Mmm…” Chris murmurs.

“If it was a film then the camera would pull back further and further and the sound would fade and then the picture.”

“It’s not a film though.”

“And anyway, it’s not the end, is it? There’s going to be a whole series.”

“Really?” Chris asks, panicked. “They’ve signed off on that?”

“Not yet.”

Chris relaxes and sips his coffee. “Well, I’m thinking of adding it.”

“Oh really?” I ask, bristling. “Well, I don’t want it.” I turn to my agent. “Sid?”

He looks up. “What?”

I motion for him to say something. He shakes his head, confused. “We don’t want it, do we?”

“Want what?”

Chris closes his eyes for a second. “I think we should add ‘The End’ to the book.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Sid says.

“Oh, for fff…” I put my hands over my face.

“No, I mean, don’t forget that when I read it I didn’t realise it was the end of the book.”

“You are not a typical reader,” I say. “In fact, you never read books.”

“Neither do you. Anyway, I read the first twenty pages of the new one.”

“How many pages have you written?” Chris asks me, only mildly interested.

“Twenty.”

“Really? Is that all?”

“Well, with you lot delaying your decision on a second book, what’s the rush?”

“If they do commission it then the deadline’s going to be tight. For your sake you should get at least half of it written.”

“And if it doesn’t get commissioned I’ll have wasted my time.”

“But you’re a writer. Surely you’d be writing anyway.”

“Why?”

“Well, surely you’re driven to it?”

“Not really,” I say. “In fact, I really don’t like it much at all.”

Chris shakes his head. I turn to Sid. “What did you think of the new pages, anyway?”

“It was alright.”

“Brilliant. Excellent feedback. Any notes? Suggestions?”

“I know what I like and don’t like, but I’m no good at fixing. But, you know, it’s alright. Chris will be the one for that job.”

“Chris doesn’t want to read it,” I say, glancing at him for a reaction.

He doesn’t deny this. “I wouldn’t be your editor on a second book anyway,” he says.

“No?”

“It would go back to Bradley. He’s the specialist.”

Unexpectedly, I am disappointed. There is a silence for a minute while we sip our drinks. I am hung-over from a vodka binge last night. Cheryl was out. I watched two DVDs of Arrested Development but I can only remember the first.

Chris looks at his watch. “Anyway, Sid’s the one who insisted it be a one book deal so don’t moan to us.”

“Sorry?”

“We offered a three book deal but…” He notices Sid looking sheepish and stops.

“What…the…fuck?” I say to Sid.

He shrugs. “If the book’s a success we’ll be in the driving seat. We can negotiate a superb contract.”

“And if it’s not?” Sid looks up at the ceiling, frowning, as though he hasn’t thought about it before. “I just…don’t know what to say. In fact, it’s in their interest not to sell too many so they can get another cheap contract and then push for sales.”

“There’s different ways of looking at everything,” Sid says. “You’re a half-empty kind of person.”

“You’re a totally empty person,” I say. “Empty-headed.” Even through my anger I am embarrassed. Then I just feel tired and I can’t wait to get home and go to sleep or maybe have a drink.

Louise Woodward and the Babyshakers

2008-06-11T04:28:00.003+01:00

Any celebrity I once possessed at Harper Collins has long since dissipated and the receptionist has fallen back to asking for my name when I approach her desk. It is just an act. Often I only mumble and she still states it clearly over the phone to whoever I am visiting. Perhaps it is a deliberate ploy to maintain the company hierarchy, but if so, how does anyone remember the receptionist’s name?

Pauline and Mavis have broken out their summer dresses and when I see their cotton hems fluttering in the breeze of an electric fan and threatening to billow upwards and reveal their legs I pretend I’m cold and ask for it to be switched off. The PR girls are looking happy today and they comply without comment.

“Here’s the autumn catalogue,” Mavis says, handing me an A4-sized colour magazine.

James Hardy stares out at me with his book The Art of Life and Death. “He beat me to the cover, then?” I ask, smirking to mask my stabbing jealousy.

“Only just,” Pauline says. “But he’d be the lead title of the year. Perhaps of the decade.” She looks away, smiling.

“You’re in love with him!” I say this accusingly but she only shrugs. I flick through page after page of gurning authors and their pretentious books. My pretentious book is not there. My smirk slowly fades until, near the back of the catalogue I see it sandwiched into a sci-fi/fantasy round-up section, and my face is merely a blank.

There is a heavy silence in the room, and finally I am able to look up and face them. “Is it going to be in WH Smith?” I finally ask in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Mavis tells me. She smiles again.

“Why are you two so happy, anyway?”

“We’re naturally this way,” Mavis says. “We know you’re never happy, and we’ve simply decided not to let you bring us down.”

“We feel that’s the best way of dealing with you,” Pauline adds.

Even though I know this is just a technique to stop me getting upset, it still robs me of the energy to raise any anger. “There isn’t even a blurb or a synopsis,” I whine. “It just shows the book. That’s not an advert. That’s just saying the name of a book. I mean, if I said to you, ‘The Wire,’ would you rush out and buy the DVD?”

“Maybe if I saw the cover,” Mavis tries.

“Couldn’t you just move it up the order a little? Maybe give it a quarter page rather than the… I can’t even tell what fraction of a page this is.”

“It’s finished, Christopher. It’s printed and distributed and in our sales reps’ bags. Besides, it’s in the appropriate section. It’s a popular genre and that’s where the relevant people will look first.”

“What about this bloke? He’s not in the fantasy section and he’s got dragons on his cover.”

“That’s an historical study of the Chinese Qing dynasty.”

“Oh. What about this one? This has got half a page.”

“She’s written more than twenty books. She’ll sell at least fifty thousand copies.”

“That’s nothing. Is it?”

“It’s pretty good going,” Pauline assures me. “This is fine for a first time, believe me. The trouble is we have no idea if there’s an audience out there for you. It’s a lottery. You’ve had no previous publishing experience.”

“I had two letters printed in the NME.”

There is a long silence. Eventually, Mavis humours me. “What about?”

“I was trying to stoke up publicity for my band at school.”

“What were you called?”

“Louise Woodward and the Babyshakers.”

“A publicist’s dream.”

“And I got my friend in as the Cretinous Useless Negligible Tosser of the week in the Melody Maker.”

“We’re talking about published fiction that garnered feedback.”

“Someone said something nice about me on Write Words.”

“Yes, for something completely different. You’re an unknown quantity. The best thing we can do is try to book you in for more readings at conventions.”

I gasp in horror and shout “No” before I can stop myself. They stare at me. “The truth is…” I begin, trying to act casual but merely appearing childish. “Well, things didn’t go that well up in Doncaster. I don’t think that public appearances are my forte.”

“On the contrary,” Pauline says, a peppering of sweat budding on her bosom in the hot room. “We’ve heard nothing but good things about your little moment on stage.”

“Who was your spy? Helen Keller?”

“We publicists do speak to one another and we heard a couple of…interesting reports.”

“I don’t think they were that impressed,” I say, confused.

“Maybe not. But you see, at the moment you are completely unknown. Almost. Say the people in the audience heard a dozen speakers that day. They all tend to blend in to one another. But most of that audience will remember you. And by the time they hear about you or the book again, preferably face-to-face with the cover in Borders, a bell will ring. Most of them will say, ‘Oh, he’s that twat who gave that abysmal reading at that convention and then insulted us.’”

“Right.”

“But some of them will be thick enough to have forgotten how they remember you and will simply buy the book because a connection has been made.”

“Hmm.”

“But better than that, some of the audience will tell other people who weren’t there about your performance, and some of them will remember your name, and some of them won’t remember why and will buy the book in Borders.”

“Or WH Smith.”

“Possibly. The more people we trick into remembering you, the wider we cast the net, the more sales. And if those people that buy the book actually like it, then that leads to good word-of-mouth and everyone’s forgotten the spectacle that kicked it off.”

“In fact,” Mavis takes over, “You can even take the performances much further. Have a few drinks before. Kick a few tables over. Let’s get some drama going.”

“So basically, you want to exploit me as a freak show.”

“You’ve got to use what you’ve got,” Pauline says, and I numbly flip open my diary as she starts reading out a list of dates and cities.

Geek Bomb part 3

2008-06-05T07:48:00.001+01:00

The authors reading before me are all awful and tedious and I find the whole thing embarrassing. Authors should be secretive, shadowy figures, a figment of the reader’s imagination, something otherworldly lurking out of sight. Here they are now on a makeshift stage just metres away from normal people, desperately flogging their work and stripping the process bare of magic and mystery.

Cheryl and Jason come in and sit next to me and I kiss my wife on the lips, not to claim ownership of my property but to taste for cock or spunk. There is only wine.

There are about fifty people in the audience when I am called to the stage, mostly men, mostly in their twenties and thirties with beards. To my annoyance I am nervous.

“Clear History is my first novel and will be released in October,” I tell them, and explain the basic plot. “I’d like to read chapter five to you now. Here, the President is preparing to make a speech.

‘SECRETARY SCOTT stood with his PDA and watched Wilson sitting in the chair. He was covered with a body cloth, while an assistant pressed powder onto his face. Wilson looked into the mirror, watching for any shiny patches the assistant might leave.

“How long do I have?” he asked.

“Just under five minutes, sir,” said Scott.

Wilson sighed. He looked tired, thought Scott. Just slightly, over the last few months, he had begun to show the strain.

“What is the status of Agent Reece?” asked Wilson.

“Unchanged, sir,” Scott told him. “He remains in a vegetative state, but the Strident techs are working on ways to bring him back.”

“And his family? His wife and children?”’

The audience are laughing loudly. I am confused and my anger rises. “Actually, it’s not supposed to be funny,” I tell them, and they quiet down. Flustered, I begin to read again, inadvertently skipping ahead.

‘Wilson stopped in his tracks and turned to face Scott, who was barely able to stop short of colliding with him. Wilson was reddening with anger that he failed to suppress in his tone. “We cannot risk falling further behind!” he snapped. “I will not tolerate it.”

Scott felt his hand rise, and was unable to stop his fingers pushing his glasses up again. He saw it as a submissive gesture, and felt weaker for it. He could understand Wilson’s impatience with the cybernetics. He had always been a pioneer, and Lumecorp, controlling the Central Territory, had always been at least one step ahead of its enemies. Wilson, essentially a peace-keeper when wars almost certainly could have been won, now had confirmed intel that the Northern Alliance had been making great strides in the last few months. Always more aggressive than Lumecorp, the threat, should they become stronger militarily, was potentially devastating.’

They are laughing again, but for some reason my embarrassment turns to amusement and I play along with it, putting on funny voices for the characters and even acting out their gestures. It goes on too long and everyone is bored by the end. I am exhausted and as they clap I flop into the leather chair on the stage, picking up a wireless microphone from a table.

Someone takes a microphone into the audience. A bearded man stands up. “That was extraordinary,” he says.

“Thank you.” They laugh again but it has a nasty, snide edge.

“Yes. How did you get interested in sci-fi?”

“I’m not,” I say without thinking. “I mean, I am, but I’m not a sci-fi nerd or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I am sweating and glad that Pauline and Mavis aren’t here. “I wrote a sci-fi book by mistake and now I’m a sci-fi author.”

Another bloke takes the microphone. “So your next book will be within the same genre?”

“I’m glad you’re so confident there will be another book. Can you talk to my publisher?!” No one laughs. “Yes, the next book will be in the same world. That’s how they hook people in and get them to buy the whole series. But you don’t need to know that.”

“Sometimes I feel that series’ can become lazy and repetitive for that reason, though.”

“Look,” I say. “Terry Pratchett’s going mental and when he does you’re going to want a replacement for that Discworld stuff.”

“But Pratchett writes fantasy.”

“Sci-fi, fantasy, same thing,” I say. The audience actually murmurs. “In a good way,” I add.

The compere appears from backstage and adjusts the podium mike. “Thank you to Christopher Hardy,” he says. “I’m sure we all wish him luck with his book.”

I say something but they have already killed my mike. I am urged offstage by the girl with the clipboard.

“They seemed to enjoy it,” I bluff to Cheryl.

She nods, silent, and I can see she is embarrassed by the performance. (I realise later she is angry at the audience’s response. Which is nice).

“Well, there was certainly a lot of laughter,” Jason says. “I didn’t realise it was supposed to be a comedy though.”

“It can be…anything you want,” I shrug. “Once the words have left the writer they are in the readers hands.”

They nod. The room is filling up for Michael Marshall Smith.

“I don’t think I’ll do this again,” I say.

“They don’t deserve it,” Cheryl says, and we go home and we’ll almost certainly never go back to Doncaster.

Geek Bomb part 2

2008-05-30T04:42:00.000+01:00

I hate attention. I am uncomfortable with people crawling to me, treating me as though I am better than them, running after me like servants. At least, I imagine I would be if it happened. So I am surprised by my disappointment when I am not met by anyone at the sci-fi convention, and am merely left to wonder through Doncaster Leisure Centre in a bewildered and frustrated state.

I spent the morning and afternoon in the hotel pretending I wasn’t fighting the urge to be sick, as though admitting I was hung-over would confirm in Cheryl’s eyes that last night’s drunken behaviour was indeed as pathetic as we both know it was. At one point I even leapt off the bed and did twenty press-ups, even though alcohol-laced blood flooded into my brain and caused my vision to white out and a thin trail of bile to ooze up my throat. When I finished I disguised my desperate clinging to the wall for support with a leg stretch. At lunch I ordered a dry sandwich rather than the grease-mess I would normally gobble down in a pained frenzy, and left some of it even though my belly was still gurgling for nourishment. (Later I shovelled a family-sized packet of Kettle Chips into my mouth in the tiny hotel hot tub, ignoring the awful shouty kids standing on my legs and splashing chlorine onto my crisps. Then, back on the bed with Cheryl watching music videos with the volume almost all the way down, my chest suddenly began burning up but I didn’t lift my shirt to cool it because somehow I knew that the sight of my fat white hairy stomach would depress me and admit too many truths about everything.)

Now we walk through the convention and I squint pathetically at the surrounding throng. It is as though a geek bomb has exploded. These are people who have become so expertly nerdish they have long since abandoned any pretence of being accepted by normal society and have embraced the world of Geekdom so intensely that they openly, even loudly, discuss their lack of lives and are far happier for doing so.

We walk round the stalls where people are pointlessly selling bootleg tapes of films at the same price legal copies can be purchased. Old horror film stars sit at tables desperately attempting to sell their autographs for five, ten, even twenty pounds. A porn star encourages us to flick through her catalogue of (laminated) nude photographs. Someone has a DVD he claims is packed with clips of Robert DeNiro corpsing. I feel faint, then bent down and re-tie my shoe laces.

Finally I find the girl with the clipboard. She doesn’t recognise me from yesterday. When she finds my name on the list she confirms that I will be reading at 9pm. “Right,” I say. “Where’s the green room?”

“The green room?”

“Yes. Or a dressing room, or just somewhere backstage I can relax and prepare.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anything like that.”

“What, so I’m just supposed to hang around here until my slot? What does Michael Marshall Smith have to say about that?”

“Well, he does have a little room. But at least two of the other readers today don’t. It’s not a personal thing, Mr. Hardy. We only have limited resources.”

“What about when my name is called? I can’t come from front-of-stage. That would look ridiculous. I have to appear from somewhere different from the punters, otherwise it looks as though I’m on the same level as them. I mean, I don’t have any delusions of grandeur but how can they respect me or take me seriously as an author if I’m just the bloke sitting next to them in the audience who suddenly gets up on stage like some kind of Open Mic night.”

“I think you might be over thinking it a little,” she suggests. “Do you know Mr. Marshall Smith?”

“No.”

“Oh. I was going to suggest that you could ask him if you could hide behind the curtain outside his dressing room. Other than that…”

She trails off. I sigh. “Can I get a cup of tea, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” I say with heavy sarcasm.

“The café is down the hall.”

“You won’t get it for me?”

“I’m really busy.”

Is that a public cafe?”

“Yes. That’s all we have.”

“I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Your contract said you would be on the premises from 5pm.”

“But there’s nowhere to go!”

“You could watch the other authors reading.”

I wave her away. Suddenly I realise that Cheryl hasn’t been interjecting. I turn and see her hanging up her mobile. “Well, if you’re sorted,” she says, “I’m going to meet Jason for a drink.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t I come?”

“No. No drinking before public appearances. We all remember the pub quiz you hosted…” I don’t and I put my hands over my ears because I don’t want to know. “You can’t keep running from the consequences of your actions,” Cheryl says.

“I can,” I say, and I run through the crowd of Star Wars and heavy metal t-shirts.

Geek Bomb part 1

2008-05-21T02:03:00.003+01:00

I arrive with Cheryl at the leisure centre in Doncaster the night before my first convention appearance. As the bored girl with a clipboard searches for my name on her list I try to give her my petrol receipts. “We don’t cover expenses I’m afraid," she says.

I study her. “I get a refund for the hotel room, though, right?” She laughs softly. She thinks I am joking. Cheryl squeezes my arm for support, a gesture I appreciate because I know the money spent has pained her more than I.

She finds my name at least. “Welcome!” she says, smiling suddenly.

“What room am I in?” I ask.

“I’ve no idea. The official hotel is across the motorway there.”

I sigh. “So I have to drive up to the roundabout and cross over?”

“Actually, I don’t think you can get back on the motorway there. You’ll have to go down two junctions. It’ll take about fifteen minutes.”

I nod, impassive. I had not expected these two days to go well.

I check in and cancel the next night’s booking, even though it means I will have to drive back to London at 10pm. We go to the hotel bar to unwind. It is crowded with businessmen and sci-fi geeks. I nod at the fat kids in Star Wars t-shirts. “Look at these cunts,” I say.

“Christopher! These are your fans. Well, future fans. Potential future fans.”

“I’d rather die,” I say.

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

I nod at the businessmen. “Why can’t they be my fans?”

“You hate businessmen too.”

“At least it might mean I was writing something with intelligence.”

“Oh Jesus,” Cheryl says.

“What?”

“I think that’s a guy I knew at university.”

“In Virginia?”

“No. I spent a couple weeks at the UL one semester.” She turns away quickly.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t want to say hello?”

“Not really.”

“Well he’s coming over.”

“Dammit.”

She stays with her back to him and I watch him stumble over, weaving with drink, holding a brown short. I am instantly jealous.

“Cheryl!” he slurs when he stops behind her.

She turns and feigns surprise. “Hello!” she says and they embrace. “Wow, it’s great to see you.”

He holds her and then looks at me. “Who’s this?”

“This is my husband, Christopher.”

We shake hands. “Your wife sucked me off at uni,” he tells me, beaming. My mouth drops open and I say nothing. It is a comment I don’t quite recover from for the rest of the convention.

I turn to Cheryl and she is smiling, embarrassed, and I know it is true.

“Sorry!” he says. “Had a few drinks. Never know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Apparently you’re not the only one,” I would say if I wasn’t stunned.

“Drinks?” he offers. “Small white wine?” he asks Cheryl. She nods.

“Scotch. Double. Ice,” I say.

He claps me on the arm and goes to the bar, landing on it heavily.

Cheryl and I stand in silence. “Do you want to go upstairs?” she asks me after awhile.

I look at the man at the bar. “Is there a minibar?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I wait for a second. “I thought you were only over here at university for a couple of weeks.”

“Yes. Fifteen days.”

“And in that time you got close enough to someone to suck him off?”

“It’s just a blow job. I didn’t fuck him.”

“What kind of skewed logic is that? Blow jobs are worse.”

“How?”

“It just is. I can’t explain. It’s practically abuse.”

“I don’t see it as a big deal. Sex is a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, trust me.”

She shrugs. “Maybe it’s another British/American thing.”

“Then I wish I’d grown up in America. Christ. British girls do not do that first.”

The man returns with the drinks. I finish mine fairly quickly. They talk for awhile. Then I feel upset enough to humiliate them. “Cheryl,” I say. “You haven’t introduced us. What’s this man’s name?”

I smile as though she is stupid but she answers “Jason” immediately and my smile drops and he shakes my hand again.

“I can tell you some stories,” he says.

“No, you’re alright,” I say. “What are you doing here? Travelling salesman? Driving around with a car boot full of timeshare brochures?”

“Nah mate. I’m here for the convention. The sci-fi industry meet.”

I smile genuinely. “Really? You’re actually here for that?” I laugh. “You’re a nerd linger, are you?”

“No, no. I represent some of the actors here. I’m an agent.”

My smile drops. “Oh. Successful, are you?”

He shrugs. “I’m doing okay. Can’t stand sci-fi myself but it’s big business. Film-wise, anyway. Couple of holiday homes, one abroad. Nice little sports car, model girlfriend. Can’t complain!” he nudges me in the ribs. “What about you two? Not on holiday in Doncaster, are you?”

“No,” Cheryl says. “Christopher has a novel coming out in a few months. A sci-fi novel.” Just a hint of malice in her voice. As though we’re standing talking to a woman I licked out ten years ago.

“Oh, that’s…that’s great,” he says. No, that’s…fantastic. You’re into all that are you? Gorks and giants and laser beams?”

“There are laser beams in the book. But no….giants. One of the characters is quite tall…”

I trail off, and trail to the bar, and trail through quite a few drinks until Cheryl has to put me to bed and in the morning I try not to remember all the things I said and shouted.

Free Counter

Sid's New Office

2008-05-14T05:37:00.001+01:00

Sid, my agent, is having an office warming party in Dagenham. He has promoted it as a ‘Brave move into new territory’ and I go along with that, unwilling to accept what such a fall from Regent Street really means. When I finally negotiate the dual carriageways and find unit 112c in the industrial estate, I discover that I am the only guest except for an elderly woman who is half-drunk and somber and who turns out to be his mother. For some reason I had assumed she was dead. Like mine.

Sid is absurdly upbeat and I think he has had too much Red Bull. He hugs me then sits on the edge of a tatty leather sofa.

“Am I late?” I ask, looking round the empty office.

“People are drifting in and out,” he claims, chewing a cocktail sausage. “You’re the guest of honour, though.”

“That’s…frightening,” I say. He tells me something about his life and I nod and look round at the tiny room and notice the tediously bland paintings on the wall. Already I want to leave and sit in traffic. “Last night I was in an Aberdeen Steakhouse,” he is saying, “And I choked on a hunk of beef. It’s happened before and after a few seconds it usually slides down my throat and I’m just a bit sore for a day or so. I’m just greedy and lazy and can’t be bothered to chew for very long. But this time I realized straight away that I couldn’t breathe at all.”

“Jesus. Who were you with?”

“Oh, I was just by myself.”

“You went to an Aberdeen Steakhouse by yourself?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason. Carry on.”

“Well, the waitress happened to be passing and she looked alarmed and she asked me if I was okay. And even though I was dying I put my thumbs up.”

“Why?”

“Even though I was choking to death I still didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to cause a fuss. I would rather have died quietly in my booth than have people run around after me. Is that terribly British or is there something really wrong with me?”

”I think there may be other issues at work here. But cats go off and hide when they’re dying because they don’t want anyone to see.”

“Maybe they don’t know anyone can help them,” Sid says.

“Possibly. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore.” I spread my arms and smile. “Congratulations!” I manage.

“Thank you,” he says, and he almost looks embarrassed. “I’m really happy here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can imagine.”

“Dagenham is becoming a real hotbed of the publishing world.”

This time I don’t respond. I crack open a Stella and take a few deep gulps. Sid stands up and does some shadow boxing and then we drink and smile awkwardly.

“Harper wants me to go to a sci-fi convention next week,” I tell him.

“That’s great!” Sid says. “Where?”

“Doncaster.”

“That’s great,” he says again.

“Well…I’m still in denial a little, I think. I’m not sure whether I’m ready to jump in.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You know, I’m just still a little…They want me to do a reading and I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?”

He looks genuinely confused. “Just…the fact that I’m not comfortable with the sci-fi tag.”

“Really?”

I look at him for a long time. “Are you being serious?”

“I vaguely remember you being a bit of a pain about it, but still?”

“Sid, I can’t believe that you don’t know this about me. I want to be a proper writer.”

“You are!” he says. “A damn good one. Which reminds me, you never sent me the end of the book.”

“What book?”

“Your book. What’s it called?” He clicks his finger.

“You mean my novel?” He nods. “Clear History?”

“Yeah. It cuts off as those two blokes are flying in that spaceship and I never got the end.”

“Sid, what are you telling me?” He shakes his head, unsure. “I sent it to you a year ago. First of all, that is the ending. Second of all, it’s not a spaceship. Thirdly, you thought all this time that you hadn’t read the end of my book and you only bring it up now?”

“Well, there’re a lot of books on my shelf. And truth be told, I’m not into sci-fi either. Really, though. That’s how it ends?” I nod mournfully. “Huh. It could work.”

His mother calls him over then and I notice that she is senile. I wait for other guests to arrive but they don’t and then a train rushes past close enough to rattle the windows.

Debutante

2008-04-27T12:04:00.003+01:00

Pauline and Mavis, the Harper Collins PR girls assigned to my book, have chosen a party at Home House to introduce me to the publishing world. Their assistant, Lindsey, has been on the phone to me every day, and her excitement, unexpectedly, has rubbed off on me.

When I arrive at Portman Square, the black cabs and private cars are queuing to stop outside the velvet ropes. The passengers will only get out when their car is directly in front of the club steps and they will wait minutes to avoid walking twenty yards from further down the road. Suddenly I feel even more self-conscious than I was on the tube, sitting amongst the Saturday night indie kids and Goths in my wedding suit, complete with silver tie. I didn’t want to hire a tux.

The doorman looks at my ticket, then at me with a look that suggests we both know I’m a chancer. He gives the ticket back to me and steps aside with a wry smile. I thank him with indecent sincerity and finger the knot of my tie as I climb the steps where another bouncer opens a door for me. In my confusion, I pull my wallet out to tip him, then I pretend to put something in it and put it back in my pocket.

It is dark inside and suddenly I wish that I hadn’t told Cheryl that, despite my invitation clearly stating ‘Christopher Hardy + partner,’ that partners weren’t invited. I had imagined Californication-style adventures but I always forget that I am shy and boring and unpleasant, and therefore not casually prone to Californication-style adventures.

I think the party is a book launch for one of Harper Collins’ more successful authors, but as I take no interest in other authors or books, I found the information imparted to me by Lindsey and the invitation itself confusing.

I spot Pauline in a low-cut black dress that repulses me in a way that the artist in me finds tantalising. How can one woman stir my senses to such a degree? I cough politely and interrupt her conversation with a geriatric couple. When she turns to face me there is nowhere to rest my eyes that doesn’t hurt them. She does a double take, then a triple take. “Christopher? What are you doing here?”

I smile awkwardly. “It’s my coming out party.” She looks at me strangely, then notices the invitation still gripped in my hand. She takes it and actually reads my name out loud. “Lindsey is an idiot,” she tells me.

“I know. But specifically, what’s the problem?”

“This was meant for James Hardy, Harper’s new protégé. This was his chance to meet some of the most influential figures in the British literary world.”

I flush in the dark club. “Well, now it’s my chance to, like, do all that.”

Pauline is panicking, and pulls a mobile phone out of her clutch bag. “No offence, Christopher, but this isn’t really your market. James has written one of the books of the decade – I’m not kidding – and we need to start getting the word out.”

I scratch my head. “I’m trying not to take offence, but, just so I know, why exactly isn’t this my market? I mean, I’ve written a good novel, right?”

“Yes, of course, but...” She shakes her phone. “Damn it. I swear these things have something built into them to self-destruct after a year. Look, James’ book is a contemporary work of realistic fiction that will speak to a whole generation of hip young things and have reverberations way beyond that. We’re hoping for big sales in the US market.”

She calls a number and holds the phone to her ear. “Hip young things?” I ask, mockingly. “Sorry to break it to you, but this party looks like a hearing aid convention. Or a Stannah Stair lift appreciation club annual event.” The old couple were still standing by us, listening. I point at the woman. “Except you, love. You look great.”

Pauline leans into me and I shudder as her breath tickles my ear. “These are the people that can make or break his career.”

She runs away, then, gabbling to someone at the other end of her phone line.

“Really?” I say to myself. “What do you do?” I ask the old man.

“We’re retired,” he says.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m the author’s brother.”

I tut and wave them away. Instinct draws me to a bar in a nearby room. Even the barman is wearing a tux. He looks at me, bored. “Free?” I ask him. He nods. “Make me a cocktail. Your choice.”

“What kind of cocktail?”

“Alcoholic.”

“Yes, but what kinds of alcohol?”

“Any kind. Honestly, pick them at random if you want. Just put a lot in.”

Reluctantly, he turns and busies himself with the bottles. Pauline finds me. She’s holding her phone by her side. “Well, James is in Edinburgh.”

“Tell him he’s not missing much.”

She ignores me. “Lisa Herling is going to be so pissed off.”

“Not if you just use me instead. I’m here and I’m eager.”

“Oh, Christopher. You’re putting me in a very difficult position.”

“I could be at home watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. I came because I was invited. Lindsey’s the one who fucked up.”

“Lindsey needn’t show up for work on Monday. I’m really sorry for her mistake, but would you mind awfully going home?”

“Can’t I just stay for a bit? I want to schmooze.”

“I don’t think schmoozing is your forte.”

“I can learn.”

She sighs. “Maybe just for a bit. But be good.”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” she says. The barman slides a huge pink cocktail over the bar and it slips perfectly into my open hand. She looks at it. “Jesus. Leave that here.”

I gulp down half of it. It is revolting. I gag, then recover and catch up to Pauline on a staircase. “I think there’re some NME writers up here,” she tells me, hurrying.

“Pauline!” someone shouts, a middle-aged man with a rubbish moustache.

She turns and they exchange heartfelt greetings. I stand and mug until my presence becomes so excruciating that Pauline is forced to introduce us. “Christopher, this is Sebastian Grant.”

“Really?” I say. “Sebastian Grant.” He nods as if to say, ‘Can you believe your luck?’ “And what do you do?”

His smile fades. “I’m a critic at the Literary Review.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” I say, genuinely impressed. His smile returns. “I’m an author.”

“One of Pauline’s bright new things, eh?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, and we both turn to Pauline but she looks noncommittal, embarrassed even, and it makes me feel very small. Even so, I push on. “Perhaps she’ll be able to sweet talk you into a review in our industry’s bible,” I say, guessing.

“Maybe, maybe,” Sebastian plays along. “What kind of work do you do?”

“It’s sci-fi.”

“Oh.” His smile fades again, this time permanently. “I see.”

Pauline makes an effort. “Science fiction does receive some attention from the Lit Review.”

“I think there’s a chap that deals with that sort of thing. Strange lad.”

“Is he here tonight?”

“Hardly. I’m sure he’s at home playing on his computer.”

Pauline laughs too loudly. Someone grabs her, demanding her attention and she trots back down the stairs with the briefest of farewells. Sebastian follows her.

I make it to the top of the stairs. Most of the rooms are closed for refurbishment but there is what used to be a small smoking room where the cool crowd are assembled. I recognise a few of the NME writers from the indie circuit hanging out of a window smoking roll-ups. One of them told me them once told me that he’d married too young. But on nights out he’d always drive and he’d take his wedding ring off in the car. He’d tape it to the top of the gear stick so that no matter how drunk he got he’d always be reminded to put it back on before he got home to his wife. I told him that he should just get a divorce. I can’t see from here whether he is wearing the ring or not, but seeing as this is a night out, if he wasn’t then it wouldn’t mean anything anyway.

I start to approach them but then the prospect of the inevitable arguments about the appalling bands they pretend to like to sell newspapers depresses me and I float back down the stairs thinking ‘network, network.’

I grab a beer from the barman, ignoring the ridiculous cocktail still standing on the bar. The beer is just something to hang onto as I make the rounds; tonight is not the night to get drunk. Involuntarily I flash back to the night I got wasted in Battersea and then used my freelance pass to get into the QVC offices after-hours and I went around the desks of people I didn’t know with a pen and some Post-It notes and stuck ‘PIG’ over hundreds of photographs of their wives and daughters. That is the kind of night I should avoid.

I needn’t worry because I only last another few minutes. I walk around for awhile and there is no one to talk to. Finally two snooty women grab me at the foot of the stairs. They are laughing and are halfway through an ironic conversation about celebrity. “You’re young,” one of them observed.

“Compared to what?” I ask, looking around at the ancient crowd.

“What do you think of the Beckhams?”

“Not much,” I say.

“Who’s your favourite celebrity couple?”

“The McCanns,” I say.

They look, at me, a little shocked. “What do you do?” the other woman asks.

“I write novels.”

“What kind?”

“Sci-fi,” I say loudly. They actually turn their noses up at me and I smile and finish my beer and walk down the steps towards the tube, loosening my tie and trying to decide whether I want to go to Sci-fi conventions or do nothing and sell ten copies of the book and work in shopping telly for the rest of my life.

"You're not crazy..."

2008-04-18T11:41:00.002+01:00

I wake up with a start and the doctor and Cheryl are sitting either side of my bed, watching me without concern.

“How are the McCanns doing?” I blurt out.

Cheryl sighs. The doctor is taken aback. “Err…Very well, I think.”

“They did it, you know.”

“Did what?”

“They did it.”

“I’d be careful what you say,” the doctor warned me.

“They did it. They cleared their name.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to say that they murdered little Maddy.”

“No, of course not. Of course not.”

“No. Although I think that they murdered her,” the doctor says.

“Oh. That’s just your opinion, is it?”

“Yes. So that’s fine.”

“Doctor,” Cheryl begins. “I’ve got so much to do. Can we speed this up a little?”

I look at my wife and try to force a tear from one of my eyes. “Darling,” I say. “I know hospitals are boring and depressing but try to have some compassion.”

Cheryl squeezes my hand but her attempt at a smile looks more like a grimace. “I have had so much compassion, Christopher. I’m still trying, but…it’s been eight days now.”

“I had a nervous breakdown,” I say. “I’m sick.”

Cheryl can’t help herself shouting. “You didn’t have a nervous breakdown. You’re just a little stressed for Christ’s sake.” She recovers herself. “Sorry,” she says, but to the doctor, not me.

The doctor coughs. “I think what Mrs. Hardy is saying is that…well, beds in the psychiatric ward, as in any hospital facility, are scarce. We haven’t found any real…scientific evidence of mental unbalance, and perhaps you’re ready to face the world again, with all its trials and tribulations, in order to give someone else a chance at rehabilitation. Someone with more…pressing problems that require our attention.”

I look at him. “You’re saying that you couldn’t find anything wrong with me?”

“We’ve conducted many tests, Mr. Hardy, and as I say, no concrete evidence of psychological problems was detected.”

“A-ha!" I shout gleefully. "Got you!"

“Got me?”

“Some of the questions I deliberately gave crazy answers to,” I say, jabbing a finger in the air. “Anyone paying attention would have noticed that.”

“Perhaps what happened,” Cheryl offers, “is that you’re actually insane but in order to appear insane you inadvertently gave normal answers.”

“Oh God,” I say, suddenly panicked.

“No, no,” the doctor says. “Our tests tell us who’s genuinely disturbed. If someone answers every question with ‘rhubarb’ then the chances are he’s having a joke.”

“Hey, I only used ‘rhubarb’ two or three times,” I say.

“I don’t like to use the word ‘faker’ Mr. Hardy, but… The fact that you were deliberately trying to deceive us would suggest that you have a certain degree of self-awareness and that you’re playing a game.”

“Your hospital admitted me,” I say.

“Yes, I seem to recall you turning up at reception unannounced, demanding to be looked after.”

“Doctor, you placed me on suicide watch.”

“Again, at your insistence, Mr. Hardy. Most of the patients we treat here have severe psychological problems that potentially make them a threat to themselves or others. There’s a big difference between being clinically depressed and a bit fed up.”

“When I was young,” I say, “My family went on holidays to France and my dad used to place me in front of topless girls on the beach so that he could pretend to take a picture of me when in fact he was zooming in on naked women.”

“And you’re telling me this because...?”

“He never told me,” I say, looking downcast. “I looked through the albums and thought I was invisible to cameras for years.”

“Mr. Hardy…”

“My mum died,” I say. “My father left the family. Black Kids failed to crack the top ten.”

“Doctor,” Cheryl whispers. “Be firm.”

The doctor leans forward. “If I prescribe some pills, will you go home?”

“What colour are the pills?”

Annoyance flickers over the doctor’s face for the first time. “Beige.”

“Can I have pink ones?”

He looks at me for a long time. “Deal.” We shake hands. Cheryl lets out a long breath and she and the doctor stand up immediately. An orderly comes in and starts pulling the sheets out from under me.

“By the way,” the doctor calls from the doorway. “I was only joking about the McCanns. They’re clearly innocent and deserve all the money and support they’ve received. I just wanted to make that absolutely clear. Good afternoon.”

The Most Stressful Thing

2008-04-09T23:37:00.002+01:00

This is the most stressful thing I have ever done.

I wake up in the middle of the night, hung-over (and probably still drunk, but who can tell when you’re mind is a mess?). I put some jogging trousers and trainers on and slip out of the house clutching a half-bottle of whiskey and a tennis racket. A few cars whiz past on Uxbridge Road and for some reason I am walking with them, sticking my fingers up at them when they beep me before remembering that I am in the wrong. I jog up to Ealing tennis club and easily scale their fence onto the grass courts. There are four balls in my racket bag and I attempt to serve them up the court, howling like a dog. No one comes to help. I miss every ball.

Then I walk for an hour and repeatedly run through the pathetic animal enclosure in Walpole Park. The foxes, already bemused about being caged up when their brethren run free around them in broad daylight, eye me with barely concealed boredom. Only when I grab the fence and snarl at them do they come to life and growl back. Eventually my voice is too croaky to continue and I leave them, running through the park screaming for attention.

In a residential street I try to break into cars but it isn’t as easy as on Grand Theft Auto. The cars are all locked and when I pick up a stone and smash a driver’s window, the keys aren’t in the ignition and I don’t know how to hot wire it. I sit in it for awhile, pretending to drive, but the steering wheel locks and I punch the dashboard a few times until my fist hurts.

Suddenly I come to the conclusion that an arrest would be good for my career. I walk up to houses pissing on their doorsteps, letting out a dribble on each one, but no one is awake. I jump on a bus and don’t pay. I stand right next to the driver and stare at him, issuing threats and ultimatums but he calmly drives on, ignoring me. He stops outside my house and I stand in front of the bus. I get tired first and instead I run to the police station in Acton and bang on the windows, shouting in mock-Arabic. It is closed.

“My novel is shit,” I shout at the only pedestrian I have seen.

“I know,” he replies and then there is nothing else to say.

It is like I always thought; I am having a nervous breakdown but no one has noticed.

I slip back into bed, finally tired. Cheryl stirs. “I can’t do this,” I tell her. “I’m a fraud.”

“Go to sleep,” she says. And I do, and in the morning, there are DVDs to watch and life carries on.

My Offical Author Photograph Session

2008-04-01T14:39:00.003+01:00

In order to celebrate the completion of Clear History, Harper Collins has booked me into a studio for my official author photograph session. I stand in the middle of the white room which is unnecessarily huge and evaluate the lighting setup. Then I remember that I am a terrible photographer and look away.

When I finally read Chris’ alterations to the manuscript I was impressed and even a little jealous. His word choice and sentence structuring injected the text with an exhilarating sense of urgency that got me excited reading my own book. I emailed him and suggested he take another pass at it. “Feel free to make as many changes as you like,” I wrote. “You’ve greatly improved chapter twelve but I still think you can make it even better. Perhaps you could expand upon the themes you’ve introduced in chapter twenty-eight to show how certain characters are affected. Also, don’t forget you always wanted to make Agent Beechill’s entrance more heroic.”

When he simply replied – almost immediately – with “I HOPE AND PRAY TO EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY THAT YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME” I wrote back refusing three of his word corrections that I picked arbitrarily from the text. I also pointed out a spelling mistake. He never got back to me and I discovered shortly afterwards that the spelling was, in fact, correct.

Still, the next day one of the PR crones called me to arrange this photo shoot. I asked them not to attend as I find their presence deeply upsetting. Since then their assistant has been dealing with me.

The photographer is ‘Beat’ Nishikori. The assistant who greets me and leads me to the studio tells me that he is one of the top ‘author portrait artists’ in the business. I ask what specific qualities an author photographer must possess compared to, say, a photographer who takes pictures of anybody else on Earth. She shrugs and says, “I’m still learning.”

Nishikori is a tall Japanese man who is wearing tight black jeans, a frilly white blouse and a pink rose. He barely touches my hand when we meet and calls me ‘Daaaarling.” He may be gay. “Call me Beat, please,” he begs me, but for some reason I call him Nish for the next hour. “You need some makeup!” he cries, pointing at a pretty girl in one corner of the room who waits for me with a small brush.

“I thought we might go for the natural look,” I say.

“You need makeup for a natural look!” he cries. I don’t like exclamation marks so just assume he cries everything from now on.

“I do have a spot,” I say. “Typical of one to come up today.”

He scrutinises me. “I don’t think makeup will cover that completely.”

I cover my chin. “Oh God. How bad is it?”

“It is a big lump.”

“Jesus.”

“The makeup cannot hide the shape. Unless we do latex.” I think he is joking. “I can do a bit of Photoshop, Christopher. It’s OK daaarling.”

The makeup girl – I don’t listen when she tells me her name – coats me with foundation. “I could have been a model,” I tell her.

“Really?” Her disbelief irritates me.

“Someone from Elite said I had an ‘Interesting face.’ She wanted to take a few test photos and I laughed at her. I was twenty-one, I had my whole life ahead of me. I thought I was going to be a famous film director. I could have been rich.”

“Probably not,” she says. Then, backtracking, “Only because it’s such a difficult business. I gave everything I had to modelling but I could never make the breakthrough. I came close…”

“Really?” I ask for revenge, then feel bad almost immediately.

“Still, you’re making something of yourself now, aren’t you?” she says. “A successful author…”

“Yes,” I agree. “Yes I am.” She is still working on my face. “Are you starting again?”

“I need slightly more makeup than I realised,” she tells me.

“Why? I’m only thirty-one.”

“Yes, but you’ve done some damage, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“You have a bright red nose and red cheeks from boozing but your eyes really stand out. You look like you’ve fallen asleep in the sun wearing sunglasses.”

We look at each other for a few seconds and I don’t feel bad for insulting her anymore.

I stand awkwardly in front of the camera while Nish coos orders at me, coaxing me to open up in some way I can’t grasp.

“You must relax, Christopher,” he tells me.

“Then stop shouting,” I shout, irritated.

“It is OK that you are not smiling,” he says. “The novel you have written is such a dark, intense work of art that I know it can only have come from a dark, intense person. You fascinate me.” The flash blinds me three times in quick succession.

“Is that was it says on the notes they sent you?” I ask, trying a variety of poses, none of which feel remotely relaxed.

“They sent me the book and I loved it,” he says.

“Yeah, right.”

“It is true. I always flick through the books but I read Clear History in two days.”

When the latest flash dissolves from my vision I look hard into his eyes. He is telling the truth. I call him Beat from that moment on. “Beat, I have my suspicions that my own wife has not read my book.”

“Not everyone can appreciate great art,” he claims.

“Well, thank you.”

“Now Christopher, will you work for me? I am getting the misery and pain loud and clear. Now I want to see some of the bitterness and loathing that will make this photograph sell to those horrible chain stores.”

“But you just made me happy.”

“Damn,” he says, firing off another few shots without looking through the viewfinder. “Quick, think about your mother’s funeral.”

“Well, it wasn’t great, but the Vol-au-vents at the wake were really nice.”

“Okay. Err…soon your wife will want babies and your life will be ruined.”

“Getting there.”

“You have a shift at Bid TV tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s try now.”

Beat keeps snapping away and I bring everything I can to the event but still he is unsatisfied. “What else can I do to help you?” he asks. “Anything you want, just name it.”

“We’re standing in a cold sterile white studio,” I say. “There’s an unnecessary amount of people standing around.”

“What do you want to do?”

“There’s a little river out there called the Thames. It’s a cold cloudy day. The river is dark and dirty and full of romance. The bridges are old and huge and imposing. A man in a suit with no tie in London in late March leaning on the embankment in black and white while pretty tourists flit by, ignoring him…”

“Sounds perfect,” he screams and then just he and I run outside and create beautiful pictures on the north bank of the Thames, Beat with two cameras and a flash and an imagination. When he stops talking the mood creates itself and silently, eye-fucking the camera, I finally give him what he needs and another slot in the puzzle is filled.

A tri-force of unstoppable ferocity

2008-03-21T10:44:00.002Z

My editor, Chris and my agent, Sid are waiting for me when I arrive in the coffee shop. I thought I was on time but when I look at my watch I see that I’m not.

Sid looks absurdly happy to see me and it touches something in me and I hold out my hands in an exaggerated greeting. “Hey!” I say. “Dudes!”

Sid gives me a high-five while Chris nods his head and forces a smile. “Christopher,” he says.

I sit down on a wooden chair, keeping up an absurd air of frivolity. “Isn’t it a great morning? Sid, it’s good to see you, but I told you, you don’t need to come to these little meetings.”

“You’re my client. It’s my job.”

“Still, there’s no real need for you to be here.”

“I had nothing better to do,” he says, and my smile drops a little because he isn’t joking.

“Shall we order a drink?” I suggest.

“Good idea,” Chris says. He attracts the waitress’s attention and squints at the blackboard. “This menu is confusing.”

“I know,” Sid agrees. “I don’t trust anything but Starbucks or Costa Coffee now.”

“You know where you are with them,” Chris says.

The waitress arrives with a pad and a pen. “Good morning. What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a Cappuccino,” Chris says.

“A Mocha for me please,” Sid says.

“And for you, sir?” she asks me.

“I’ll just have a Scotch on the rocks, please.”

She looks at me uncertainly. “Um…we don’t have any alcohol, I’m afraid.”

“Damn,” I say. “I’ll settle for a beer, then.”

“No, we don’t have any alcoholic drinks here.”

“What?”

“This is a coffee shop,” Chris says, unable to hide his disgust.

“I don’t drink coffee,” I whine. There’s an uncomfortable silence which I fill when it seems no one else will. “A tea then, please.” The waitress nods and moves away. “A double,” I call after her. She ignores me.

My mood has darkened. Chris looks at his watch. “Well, really I just wanted to try and close the book on the book,” he says. I can tell he usually uses this as a joke but with me there is no humour. “Have you gone through the final corrections?”

“Hey!” I say to Sid, suddenly remembering. “Are you still seeing that girl from Hore’s?”

“No.” He looks miserable. “Things didn’t quite work out there.”

“That’s too bad.”

“In fact, she changed her mind before we even got back to my flat. It was a frustrating evening.”

“You told me you’d been on a few dates. You told me she’d met your mother.”

He shrugs. “Well, I was embarrassed.”

“And now?”

“Just a bit angry.”

Chris cuts in. “Do you think you two can discuss your love life afterwards? This is actually a business meeting and I do have a lot to get through today. I chose this place because you’re always so glazed over in my office. But it should still be semi-formal.”

“I don’t have a love life,” I tell him. “I’m married.”

Sid laughs which makes me laugh. The drinks arrive in china cups. Chris and Sid’s come with a free mini-shortbread but mine doesn’t which makes me slightly sad.

“Anyway,” Chris tries again. “I’ve done all the work and I’ve sent it over to you and now I just need you to sign off on it and we’ll be done.”

“You should come out with us,” Sid tells Chris. “I think together we’ll make a tri-force of unstoppable ferocity.”

“I’m married,” Chris says, and Sid shrugs. Chris turns back to me, impatient. “Why have you not finished it yet?”

“My computer was running slow,” I say, “And I thought it might have a virus. I downloaded some anti-viral software, and that turned out to be a virus. It’s been a frustrating two weeks.”

“Look,” Chris says, “I can assure you it’s all in order. Just sign off and we can put it to bed.”

“I can’t do that. I have to read it. When I find grammatical errors in books I find it really alienating.”

“OK. A, there will be a separate final check before it goes to print, B I am a damn good editor. This isn’t a rock biography. This is a novel and I respect novels and you can trust me just a little bit.”

“It’s not a trust thing,” I say. “I just need to do it myself. I’ll do it in the next few days.”

“The board likes to know everything is running to schedule.”

Sid took a sip of his coffee. “The book isn’t out for six months. Can’t the board just relax?”

“No, the board can’t ‘just relax’! They get nervous and jumpy with me.”

“I’ll get it done,” I assure him again.

He puts his head in his hands. “I just want it to be over. I’ve spent a disproportionate amount of my time on this project, you know.”

“Sorry,” I say genuinely.

“And it’s still not as good as it could have been. I’m used to debut novelists being precious and argumentative about the changes I suggest but you just ignored them all. I tell you, you’re lucky Harper Collins didn’t drop the project citing breach of contract.”

“I would never have let that happen,” Sid says, and Chris and I suppress smirks.

“It’s still a sci-fi novel, though. Or is it?” I ask, suddenly excited.

“Yes, it’s still sci-fi,” Chris assures me.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, you should like it then.”

“But I’m not a sci-fi editor,” Chris tells me.

“I’m confused.”

“Bradley had too much on and sometimes we have to cover each other. I drew the short straw.”

“This isn’t what Christopher needs to hear,” Sid says.

“Oh I don’t care anymore,” I say. “No one’s got behind me on this thing.”

“We are behind you, Christopher,” Chris sighs.

“Remember,” Sid tells me, “You’re having a novel published by a major company. Now we’ve got to go out there and sell it.”

“Well, first you’ve got to finish it,” Chris reminds me.

I feel low and ungrateful, which makes me feel lower, and because of this I imagine that something more positive will come out of the meeting and that we will part with hugs and apologies and platitudes such as ‘I really do respect you as an artist’, but in reality, Chris gets up without finishing his drink to get back to his office and I have to make my excuses to Sid to avoid spending the rest of the day with him.

At home, I watch Bid TV for a few minutes which motivates me to start reading through the final draft.

Late Shift At Bid TV

2008-03-11T22:05:00.006Z

I walk into the Sit-Up production offices at 3pm and immediately the sense of dread kicks in. The faces on the crew tonight – directors, producers, presenters, floor managers, sound and camera operators – are all familiar but none are welcoming. After three years as a freelance camera operator here, I have failed to make any kind of significant connection with any of them. The meeting is already underway, and I sit apart from the others, too apathetic to show any interest in the information being imparted, nodding at a few of the people who look my way. The gesture is not returned.

The head cameraman, for reasons I cannot fathom, has a soft spot for me, and so the phone calls continue and I drive the two miles into Acton and do my mini tours of duty.

Peter Simon is holding forth at the meeting, gently complaining about the colour of the jewellery displays. “I know I say this almost every day,” he is saying, “But, well, it never seems to change. If we’re selling gold or silver coloured rings and bracelets, it just doesn’t make any sense to me to have yellow or white backgrounds. I mean, it doesn’t show up. We need brightly coloured backgrounds, like red or blue. That way, the jewellery shows up. I mean, am I wrong? Sometimes I feel like no one listens in this place. The problem with the yellow and white backgrounds is that the gold and silver doesn’t show up…”

He continues but I tune him out and read a book, putting my feet up on someone’s desk, not caring whose. Twenty minutes later on the way out, Simon stops on his way to make-up and hits me on the shoulder. “’Ey,” he says, taking an interest in something I wish he wouldn’t. “Not long now, surely?”

“Well, still a good seven months away unfortunately.”

“Why does it take so long?” he asks rhetorically. “’Ere,” he says, tapping my shoulder again, “Someone should write a bloody book about this place.”

“Well, if I could find a way of setting it in the future with Cyborgs and laser guns, maybe my publishers would let me.”

Peter Simon nods uncertainly, not getting me. “Well,” he says, “Good luck ‘ey?” And he bounds off, beaming.

In the Bid TV studio, I walk up to one of the two camera operators being relieved. “Alright?” I say.

“Alright,” he says back, and gives me his headset. There is nothing else to say. I put my hands on the camera and perform a long, slow tilt down a necklace. Almost immediately a vague sense of panic sets in. I have ten hours of work to come, seven hours of which will be spent on camera. I’ll never be able to think of seven hours of shots, I think. I will go mad, I imagine. Time stretches and stops here, I know.

But I manage two shots, then a third, and a forth and that is how time is marked; shot by shot, product by product, hour by hour. The music begins to nag at my senses after ten minutes, the endless repetition of a mindless, inoffensive ditty that is barely noticed by the viewer but that on one side of the studio, the one with the ‘speaker, is almost unbearably loud.

I’ve been lucky with the director. He is one of the one’s who doesn’t care, who doesn’t take it seriously, who understands that it’s just shopping telly. The other cam op is OK too, someone who I can say stupid stuff to when I’m going crazy and who’ll play along. He’s on Camera 2 at the moment, the one where you get a bit of respite, and he saunters over to me while he has a moment, nodding hello.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I tell him. “I might go home. I’m going to walk out and go home and just not spend money anymore.”

He smiles. He can empathise. Morale is low here. Three months is the point where new recruits are ground down and earn their thousand-yard-stare. Michael has been here for over a year. He is entering the stage known as acceptance. “I thought you were going to be some big-shot author,” he says and I grimace. “Shouldn’t you be rolling in it?”

“Only a small number of authors manage to earn a living from fiction alone,” I tell him. “One has to regard it as a very time consuming hobby.”

“So no one bought your book then?”

“It’s not out ‘till October. How can you not know this? Are you not going to buy it?”

“I’m not much of a reader,” he says, and walks back to his camera.

After only half an hour an ache creeps into my calves and feet. This is a bad sign.

After an hour we swap and I get onto camera 2. I walk up to the assistant presenter (formerly known as model). She is a cute blond called Laura but she arouses nothing in me. When I first started here, the models got me through the day; a cavalcade of gorgeous ditsy girls with tits spilling out of their outfits, casually adjusted every time the camera was about to swing their way. Even in the darkest depths of a twelve-hour mid-shift, all it took was a quick glance to spark off dirty fantasies involving one or more of them; chance meetings in the dark studio after-hours leading to quick, frantic sex on the patch of carpet Andy Hodgson uses to demonstrate the suction power of vacuum cleaners, or a weekend away on a promo shoot where, over a few drinks, sad stories of useless boyfriends are told and then tears are mopped up and forgotten with, well, quick, frantic sex. For a long time though (and even before their uniform was changed from tight revealing shirts to more conservative, tasteful tops), the crushing weight of working here overwhelmed any vague hopes of sexual possibility. Now they are as much a symbol of tedious grind as the wall-mounted signs displaying suggestions/orders such as ‘Smile! Happiness! Engage! Sell!’.

“How’s your blog coming?” Laura asks me.

“It’s OK,” I say, surprised and pleased she cares.

“I keep meaning to check it out,” she says. “Write down the address again for me.”

“That would be a waste of paper and ink,” I say, and she doesn’t bother to deny it, or perhaps understand it.

“Your book must be coming out soon.”

I swallow a scream. “Not ‘till October.”

She claps her hands together. “Exciting! Have you read Jordan, sorry Katie Price’s new one?”

“No, it’s on my wish list though.”

“She’s like, my idol. She’s so amazing.”

I nod, because there is really nothing else I can think of to do.

On my first break, predictably, I’m at the pub writing the outline of my second novel, sitting outside to avoid the dance music even though it is dark and windy and I have to weigh the pages down with my pint. This is the high point of my day.

The second part of my shift, for which I switch to Price-Drop TV, is utterly inconsequential, although marred by a director who, for Christ’s sake, cares, and who asks for special moves and peers through the window from the gallery to make sure we aren’t talking to each other, presumably because his own life is so empty and devoid of joy that he can’t stand the thought of anyone being anything but entirely unhappy.

After my second break spent at the pub, the beginning of the final part of the shift in Bid goes relatively quickly, and the possibility that this day might actually draw to an end seems within the realm of feasibility. But, naturally, when it comes to midnight, the final depression sets in and the shittiest products of all are dragged out for painfully slow flogging. No matter how many times Peter Simon stops the music to inform us gravely that the price has gone far below anything they could have expected, people just aren’t buying. What depresses me more than anything is that for all his humour and generosity, Simon cares about what he is doing. He asks the producers about targets and revenue and wants to do better. I want that spirit, that desire to make the company paying me to do better. But I will never have it because if the company makes an extra ten thousand pounds, what’s in it for me? Why should I want be part of a team that makes its employers richer while my wage stays the same?

Finally, at 1am, we can turn the cameras off and go home. My legs are screaming in pain, and this is why I don’t walk to work, because the walk home would be unbearable. I try to slip into bed without waking Cheryl but she rolls towards me and immediately remembers where I’ve been. She puts her hand on my chest. “Never mind,” she says as I lie stiffly on my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to convince my body that the suffering is over for another day. “Soon you’ll be famous and rich and this will all be a distant recollection for your autobiography.”

She has hope, which is enviable, but I stare at that ceiling and I think about the near-certainty of working in shopping telly for the rest of my life and it terrifies me.

Obama? People think they're voting for President Palmer...

2008-03-04T11:46:00.002Z

“The crones have got me my first national interview,” I told Cheryl, swaggering in a comical fashion in order to hide my real excitement.

“Oh my God!” she said, clapping her hands together. “That’s fantastic!” She hugged me. “What in?”

“The Ealing Leader,” I told her.

“Oh.” I felt her arms go limp. “That’s not really…national as such, is it?”

“Well, ‘national’ is just an expression we use in the industry to mean ‘major’.

“No, I’m pretty sure it means ‘national’.

“Shall I cancel it?”

“No! I’m really proud. Just don’t…”

“Don’t..?”

She pulled back and held my hands. “Don’t be horrible.”

“I’m just going to be myself.” Her smile looked more like a grimace.

We meet in a bar by the Bank station. It is otherwise empty, and Amy and I sit in a booth in the corner. “Where’s your DAT?” I ask once we’ve shaken hands.

“I’m old fashioned,” she says, smiling. “I like to use shorthand.”

“I was worried your paper couldn’t afford one,” I say.

She laughs. “Well, we’re not a huge publication, but we have a fairly wide circulation. Everyone gets a free copy through their door.”

“Yeah, but I just throw mine away without opening it.”

“Oh. Well, you should take a look. There are some interesting articles about issues that really affect local residents. That’s why I enjoy doing interviews like this. People like to follow success stories from their area. It’s exciting for people in the community to see that they have a soon-to-be-published novelist in their midst! It will build up a buzz.”

“Mmm. Do Polish people read books in English?”

Her smile drops. “Err…I’m not sure.”

“I’ve actually started drinking Polish beer to fit in with the locals!”

“Yeah, I read that on your blog.”

I cough quietly. “Well, it can work in other mediums. Actually, I was driving on Uxbridge Road last week and a bus from Warsaw was unloading them. But because it was left-hand drive, they were all getting out into the road, and this woman just stepped out without looking and I hit her with my wing mirror.”

“Oh my God! Was she alright?”

“I didn’t stop,” I say, annoyed she’s interrupted my anecdote. “But I was late for work, and when the boss asked me why I said ‘I hit a pole!’”

“You know, I can’t actually print anything racist.”

“Not really racist, is it?”

“Kind of is. My mum’s half-Polish.”

I change tact and bow my head. “My mother died.”

She puts her pen on her pad. “How did that affect your writing?”

“My mum was everything to me,” I claim. “Her influence on my novel was a very direct one. Without her, there would be no book.”

“What’s the book about?”

“Cyborgs, laser guns and the relationship between father and son.”

“Right. I just want to bounce a few questions off you…”

“Bounce away.”

“So that the readers can get a feel for who Christopher Hardy is.”

“'A feel’? Ooh!” I shake my head. “Sorry. Go for it.”

“How important is success to you?”

“Success should be important to everyone. But success doesn’t have to be winning an Olympic gold. It can be getting through the day without hurting anyone, maybe actually having done a good deed. A day when you’ve thrown a McDonalds bag full of rubbish out of your car window should not be defined as successful.”

“Would you like to be rich?”

“I’d like to be comfortable. I’d like not to have to do tedious household chores. Some celebrities say that the routine of washing, drying and ironing clothes keeps them grounded.” I do a ‘wanker’ sign.

“Right.”

“I’d like to not have to fly on Easy Jet. Something about being herded into rooms in designated lines by surly men in uniforms doesn’t appeal to me. Actually, your Polish readers will know where I’m coming from there.” She gasps, so quickly I bring in my concern for the environment. “You know, it’s those low-cost airlines that are responsible for global warming. That’s why I’d like to be able to afford to fly First Class with British Airways every time.”

“Your wife is American, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Dare I ask what you think of the Democratic race?”

“The important thing is that Bush is getting out. Everything else is secondary.”

“The next President could well be a woman or a black man.”

“Voting Bush in for a second term was a mistake that veered close to unforgivable. The American people are reacting to that and making amends. They are open to things that would have been inconceivable in the past.”

“What do you make of Obama?”

“He seems OK. My concern is that people are confused because of 24. They think they’re voting for President Palmer.”

“Amazing.”

“But we should be worrying about Britain. We should be focusing on people’s real concerns.”

“And what are those?”

“Aeroplane turbulence. The lack of public tennis courts. The melting of the Polar ice caps. We should be finding effective ways of turning sea water into drinking water, which would solve the problem of world thirst and the threat of flooding. As the sea levels rise we could just drink it.”

“Have you thought about going into politics?”

“As with so many people I raise questions but, alas, have no real answers. But I do know that the price of housing is eroding the class system. I grew up middle class and I earn a liveable wage. But I can’t afford to buy a house. No one my age can. We have a whole new generation who should just be called Renting Class.”

“Top ten people you’d like to hang out with?”

“One shouldn’t meet their heroes. I’ve done it a few times and it always goes badly.”

“What, they’re rude or boring, or...?”

“No, they’re always great. But I’m usually drunk, and things can get nasty.” At this point my third whiskey arrives. Amy sips her diet Coke.

“Maybe just ten people who you’d like to hang out with if you were sober and nicer?”

“Peter Doherty, Steve Coogan, Damon Albarn, Roger Federer, Conrad Keeley, Karl Pilkington, Jack Dee, Paul Simonon, Mick Jones, Topper Headon.”

“Are any of those writers?

“Not primarily.”

“Or women?”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Well, no, you’re married.”

“So was Liberace.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you scared of death?”

“Not death, just the pain of dying.”

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”

“My worst fear is that death is just a paralysis and you’re still aware of everything that’s going on. There’s no dignity in death. All that nakedness. Everyone gets a look. And you’d have to suffer through an autopsy, and then get thrown in a box and either burnt and ground up or stuck in a hole to rot. I’d hate that.”

“But if your heart has stopped…”

“No one knows what happens, do they?”

We stay for another hour and I make use of her expense account. The whiskeys keep coming. I haven’t eaten.

“What’s next for you?”

“The company are forcing me to write another Sci-fi book.”

“Forcing you?”

“If you a write a series of books in the same world with the same characters over generations then the geeks who actually buy this stuff will stick with the whole series and buy the back catalogue if they come to it late. That’s the theory, anyway.”

“You don’t see yourself as a Sci-fi writer?”

“I see myself as a writer. Pigeon-holing is purely marketing. I don’t even see Clear History as Sci-fi. It’s just a story set in a slightly alternative world. But now my next book will be a prequel explaining how this world came about. That’s if the first one sells enough. So buy it!” I shout at the table before remembering there’s no Dictaphone. I finish my whiskey.

“So what do you want to be writing?”

“I’ve got an idea about terrorism. That’s really hot now. In the middle of the night, a group of terrorists – Polish, maybe – sneak into Heathrow airport and replace all the fuel with water. The next morning, all the planes get filled up with water, so the fuel gauge still registers as full, and then an hour into their journey the fuel runs out and they plummet to the ground. Hundreds of them. It’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

She nods. “Well, I’ve got more than enough. It’s been fascinating.” She holds her hand out.

My head swims with booze. “Perhaps you’d like to take this party elsewhere.”

“I’ve actually got to get back to the office.”

But I can detect hesitation. I wink. “Care to set up office in a hotel room?”

She screws up her face in disgust. “Jesus.” She gets up and walks out.

“At the very least you’ve got a story to tell,” I shout after her, and order another drink.

The Ealing Leader hasn’t published the interview yet.

"Do you think you're as good as James Joyce?"

2008-02-27T19:40:00.003Z

I am meeting my editor for lunch in the Ivy. Not my choice. The Maitre d' smiles at me professionally. “I’m meeting Chris,” I tell him.

“What’s his surname?” he asks.

“I… don’t know,” I admit.

“That’s alright, sir, he said you wouldn’t know.”

He leads me to a small table in the centre of the room. Chris, as usual, is wearing a suit. “Would it kill you to throw on a shirt?” he asks, eyeing my un-tucked T-shirt and jeans.

I shrug. “I thought this place was full of arty creative types.”

“Yeah, well even arty creative types own clothes with buttons.”

“I’m just relieved we all survived the earthquake.” I sit down opposite him.

“You stink of booze. Last night’s booze.”

“I went to see the Wave Pictures,” I tell him.

“One of the big Oscar winners?”

“No, a band. The perfect band. Great tunes, great lyrics, no chance of commercial success. Although it’s annoying because I was their third fan and already the small rooms they’re playing are uncomfortably full. My friend, Matt, was their first fan. He wanted me to mention that.”

“He asked you to tell me that?”

“No, he wanted it in my blog.”

“What, are you writing your blog right now?” he asks sarcastically. Then he looks me over. “Are you recording our conversation?”

“I can remember it. But I can’t write it if it didn’t happen.”

“So everything I say to you is public domain? Brilliant.” He sighs. “Is this like your other band, the Young Negroes…?”

“Black Kids.”

“Black Kids. Wow, they really broke out.”

“They’re coming. This summer is theirs’.”

“Uh-huh. Pick an Hors d’Oeuvres.”

I study the menu. “What are we doing here?”

“Well, someone looked through our expense accounts and realised the only author on our books we hadn’t spent a penny of our entertainment budget on was you. Somehow you slipped through the net.”

“What does that say about me?”

“And as your lucky editor, the chore, sorry, pleasure, fell to me. We need to talk about your manuscript anyway.”

“No, I mean, here. This place.”

“Oh, you’ve got a problem with the Ivy now? Worried you’re selling out?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you worry about selling out when you’ve got something to sell? If anyone is looking at you they’re thinking you’ve won a competition. You wrote to Jim’ll Fix It. There are no paparazzi waiting outside for you.”

“We’re a minute away from Chinatown. Noodles for £6.”

“You’re not paying, Christopher. Choose a starter,” he says again. “Look; salmon, bass…”

“I don’t like fish.”

“Duck then.”

“How about Beluga Caviar? Only £210 for 50g.”

“Dream on.”

“What about the manuscript, anyway? I thought you liked the re-write.”

“The story and structure is fine. Now we go through it in more detail. We look at the language, sentence structure, cut out the flab.”

“Jesus. Always fussing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice rises in the quiet restaurant. “Are you really this ignorant? Every writer gets edited. That’s how the writing gets as good as it is. Do you think you’re a genius? Do you think you’re as good as James Joyce?”

“I don’t know his work.”

He sighs. “Martin Amis, then.”

“Who?”

“Irvine Welsh. Do you think you write as well as Irvine Welsh?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Yeah, alright, I came down too far. Who do you consider the best writer you’ve actually read?”

“Stephen King?”

“Ok, yeah, him. He’s a better writer than you. Do you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Not only is he a great storyteller but he is a master of language. He knows how to construct simple sentences and strip things down. He’s been writing since he was a child, and you know what? He listens to his editor. Believe me. And I’m the one who has to do the work. Just agree to what I do and it will be painless. Now choose a starter.”

“I don’t like fancy food.”

“You want to go to Chinatown?”

“Can’t beat Singapore Noodles.”

He closes his menu. “You’re actually going to make me leave my free lunch at the Ivy and go in a cheap Chinese restaurant?”

“Keep the client happy, Chris.”

“Fuck you,” he says, and we go for noodles. The atmosphere during the meal is tense.

The Sickness Of Men

2008-02-20T14:12:00.002Z

It’s late on a Saturday night in Hore’s on Frith Street and it’s as if something trippy has been mixed into all the alcohol behind the bar. Everyone is wasted but decadently so. At least, that’s how it feels in the moment if you’re part of it.

Sid is shuffling around on the dance floor. He is not a good dancer, and he is not good looking, but something about his awkward posing endears him to the women around him. Not to the point where they find him attractive, but when he grinds up against them they push him away without malice.

The whole floor of the club is ankle deep in booze. Not the cheap strong lager that splashes up onto your jeans in the Camden pubs, but exotic cocktails that girls in white high heels have been unable to keep in their glasses. They slip and slide in their own liquid, paid for and sloshed onto the floor and they land on their backs, laughing, skirts riding up revealing white or pink knickers. Men rush to help them, the grips on their DMs just holding them upright as they haul the girls to their feet and hug them. The girls are not particularly pretty. All the pretty girls are at clubs you’ve heard of.

Everyone is shouting above the dreamlike trance music, and because I cannot hear their meaningless words, I am able to imagine that they are quoting poetry or philosophy and discovering new ways of analysing art. People in the booths are snorting coke off their tables but there are no bouncers to throw them out or even to turn a blind eye because they are in the manager’s office with some girls who were refused entry and then begged to get in. Someone screams in my face and I nod and smile because it seems appropriate. I cannot focus on anything because everything is rushing past me and through me, morphing and twisting like when Frodo slips the ring onto his finger.

The barman is knocking back shots and refilling my glass without asking. Occasionally he stumbles backwards and sweeps a few tumblers onto the floor. He looks confused, unsure of what has happened, and he crunches the smashed glass underfoot, oblivious. Briefly, I think about tomorrow’s hangover. Then I drain my glass. It is refilled.

A man next to me falls off his bar stool. Others join him on the floor. Then they sing Sailing and do some arm movements. Unable to let go and join in the fun, I stare at the ice as I twirl it in my glass.

Sid totters over from the dance floor looking around at the women in wide-eyed wonder. “God Damn,” he says, sitting next to me at the bar. “God Damn,” he says again.

“Dude,” I say for no reason. We are drunk and have gone American. We are celebrating the completion of what I hope will be the final draft of Clear History.

Sid leans in towards me. “Can you imagine if women knew how shallow we really are?” he asks, ogling a group of girls across the room. “I mean, they think they know. They’ve heard the statistics, men think about sex once every six seconds, or whatever. They’ve flicked through FHM and seen the cars and the tits and everything. They joke and bitch about it to their friends and in their magazines, but they could never fathom the true extent of it. Pornography, they think, is escapism, a fantasy. But the reality is far worse.

“Every woman I see gets a rating. Not a mark out of 10, but a Yes, No or Maybe. Even if it’s an old woman in a wheelchair, even if it’s subconscious, they still get that No. It still registers. And the Maybes get a second, third, fourth look. And the Yes's get thoughts. Every Yes and some of the Maybes I see I think about talking to them and whether I could get them into bed, and what I would do to them if I could. It’s a sickness, really. I can’t stop. And it’s not just something occurring in a small part of my brain. It is literally the most important thing. If I’m walking around a museum, or watching a rugby match, or sitting in a Harper Collins meeting, no matter who I’m with, everything I am experiencing is secondary to the scoping, judging and analysing of women. I swear that if I was being put to death, strapped down for a lethal injection, I’d be looking through the glass to see if there are any hot relatives of my victims. If someone cut my throat on the street and a group of girls were looking, I’d be on the ground, checking them out as my lifeblood drained away.

“They know we look at their legs and their boobs on the train if they really think about it, but they forget. We never do. If they had any concept of exactly what goes on in here,” – he taps his head – “If they even came close, they would run a mile. They would be genuinely terrified and they would exclude us from their lives. By now women would have taken over the world and would just keep us around to reproduce and open jars. And if they felt anywhere near the same as us we’d all be fucking constantly on every street corner.”

And God Damn if one of the girls here tonight doesn’t share his enthusiasm for sex, and at 1.30am he waves goodbye and stumbles off with a plain blonde on his arm, leaving me on my stool, glancing at my reflection in the chrome of the bar. I think about going home to Cheryl, but what keeps me in the bar is not the hope of meeting a strange woman. Being married has dimmed that fire a little. And what burns brighter can be bought legally in bottles.

I order another Scotch.

"Is My Book Going To Be In WH Smith's?"

2008-02-12T13:27:00.000Z

I ask this repeatedly as Mavis and Pauline enter the conference room, more to hide my terror than anything.

They look at each other wearily, and sit down opposite me. Pauline holds her hand up, cutting me off. “Christopher, it is a possibility at this stage, but you really must stop obsessing about it. It’s not healthy.”

I watch them carefully. They don’t make any sudden moves. Mavis looks almost upset. “You’ve been saying some unkind and untruthful things about us. And while we can take a little ribbing, we are also busy people and we have other people to see today. So perhaps you could stop the fooling around and be sensible for a few minutes.”

Perhaps she is being genuine. I study them and have to admit they aren’t the demons I remember. Ugly, certainly, but not demonic. I sit up. “Something strange definitely happened last time.”

Mavis sighs. “Writers and their imaginations. Exaggeration is fine, but, well…”

“It’s not as if widespread damage was done,” Pauline says and they smile.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it was only on your blog. And that hasn’t exactly been a huge publicity tool, has it?”

“It’s done alright.”

“How many people does it reach?”

“If it hasn’t done that well, then surely as publicists, you should take responsibility. Have you been advertising it?”

“Not since you called us hideous old crones,” Mavis snaps. “The whole thing is too negative.”

“You see, this is part of our problem,” Pauline says. “You need to be nice to people. Nice to booksellers and librarians. Nice to the book buyers. Nice to interviewers. At least until people want you, we need to convince them that selling your book is worthwhile.”

“But I hate everyone,” I whine.

Mavis looks at Pauline. “Perhaps we should send him on a media awareness course.”

“Ooh, no, that would make things even worse.”

“You’re right.” She looks at me again. “The best thing we can do is keep you away from everyone. Which makes it terribly difficult for us to sell you. We could suggest to a newspaper a few articles you could write based on your experiences that led you to write the book.”

“Except,” Pauline says, “It’s a book about cyborgs and laser guns.”

“Hey, it deals with a lot of family issues.”

“It doesn’t say that on our summary sheets.”

“You have read the book, haven’t you?” They look down at their hands. “This is unbelievable! How can you sell a book you haven’t read?”

“Be realistic, Christopher. Have you at least filled out our author questionnaire?”

“Yes,” I say, and hand it to Mavis.

Pauline fills the silence. “You’ll definitely be on Amazon.”

“I could photocopy the manuscript and get it on Amazon myself,” I say. “They sell anything.”

“Still…it’s something.”

Mavis looks up from her sheet. “This is supposed to be something about you we can sell to journalists.” I nod. “Have you ever done anything interesting in your life?”

“It’s all there. I went to LA that time.”

“That was three weeks ago. And going round Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum is not going to excite anyone.”

“There’s that story about getting a blowjob from Gentle Ben.”

“How does that relate to your book?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my head in my hands. “I just like watching DVDs and listening to music.”

“Make something up for Christ’s sake,” Pauline shouts.

“I’ll do better,” I promise.

“You’ll be in the autumn catalogues in a month or two. We need something good by then.”

“In the mean time,” Mavis says, “We’ve booked your first appearance for October, a week after the book comes out.”

“What is it?”

“It’s at the…” She checks her notes. “The Science Fiction and Fantasy Northern Conference.”

“Northern?”

“Northeast, actually. In Hull. You’ll be doing a reading and a Q&A session and signing copies of the book over a weekend.”

“A weekend? These people are freaks. They dress up as characters and talk in Klingon. They’ve become so expertly nerdish they have long since abandoned any pretence of being accepted by a normal society and have embraced the world of geekdom so intensely that they openly, even loudly, discuss their lack of lives and are far happier for having done so.”

“This is your fan base. You’ve written a fucking sci-fi book.”

“Maybe some of them will be dressed up as your cyborgs,” Pauline suggests.

“Will I get a free hotel room?”

“And travel.”

“I’ll do it. But I demand security.”

“I’ll get on that,” Pauline says, and puts her notes down. “Now, is there anything else in your life you’d like to talk about?”

“Oh no you don’t,” I say, and escape into unexpected sunlight.

Since My Mother Died, I've Become Flavour Of The Month At Harper Collins...

2008-02-04T13:22:00.000Z

…But I try not to let it go to my head. I acknowledge the receptionists and PAs who now seem to know my name whilst giving them what they want; mournful, sultry looks full of endless, aching sadness. Luckily, this is my natural expression.

I sit at the table with Sid, Chris and the suit whose name, I think, may be Jason. If it isn’t, it should be. Other suits sit a respectful distance away, and I keep my shades on because I have an excuse. I myself am wearing a jet black suit.

“Well, Christopher,” Jason begins, but stops when I toss a fat A4 envelope onto the table. “What’s this?” he asks, opening it.

“Pages 114-176 of the new draft of Clear History,” I tell him.

“Wow,” Chris says. “And I only received pages 52-113 a few days ago. If only we could have one of your relatives pass away every week!” He laughs, then stops, embarrassed, when no one joins in. He clears his throat. “Sorry.” I shrug. He moves his head to the side in an effort to see through my sunglasses. I lift them briefly to show him that I am looking at him, then turn away.

Sid pats my hand. “Christopher’s really come on leaps and bounds with regards to his work ethic.”

Jason flicks through the pages without looking. “Well, I was hoping before we got started to express how sorry we all are for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s times like these that make you realise what the important things in life really are. By the way, I think pages 101-104 are the best I’ve written yet.”

“Oh, good,” Jason says. “I lost my mother a few years ago and…”

“It has been terribly hard for me,” I declare, reaching for half a plain bagel.

“Yes. Well, you seem to be holding up, though.”

“I manage to put up a good front. It’s not fair on others to carry around a heavy air of grief. Writing is all I have now.”

“And your wife,” Sid says.

I nod. “Mainly the writing, though. I sit at home alone in the dark, just the glow of the computer screen lighting up the tears that surprise me when they fall from my cheeks.”

Jason nods understandingly. “One of our junior editors must have caught you on a good day, then, when she saw you drinking and flirting with some attractive women at Jrink on Saturday night.”

I rub my cheeks with one hand. “She must have…seen someone else. I look like quite a few people.”

“Sid was with you.”

“Again,” I say, “A very typical looking man.”

Sid nods, then holds his finger up. “No,” he says, “That was us. Yeah, Saturday, we went out.”

I look at him open-mouthed. The others watched us. “Are you sure?” I ask him with deliberate weight. He nods and then I lift my shades and glare at him.

“Oh,” he says, and spends an excruciatingly long time looking up and thinking about what to say. “Maybe that was…another client.”

“Oh,” Chris says, “You’ve taken on other clients now?”

Sid looks caught again. “No, I’ve always had others.”

Chris looks confused. “I thought you told me that…” It is his turn to stop and realise something. He looks at me and shakes his head as though in deep thought. “Or was that...?” I rub my eyes under my glasses.

“One of the girls was the junior editor,” Jason tells me. “You may have been too intoxicated to remember the rather long and rambling conversation you apparently conducted with her.”

“Drinking, unfortunately, has been a crutch through the grieving process,” I admit.

“Well, we’re here to help if you need it,” Jason says.

Chris flicks through the new pages. “My concern now is that you’re changing too much. I mean, I like what you’re writing, but we’re losing some of the stuff I liked the most.”

I look at Sid. He tilts his head. I lift my sunglasses. He nods. “It really seems as if Christopher just cannot win,” he says to everyone. “First you complain because he isn’t changing enough, now you’re complaining because he’s changing too much. What would make you happy?”

“A re-write along the guidelines we set out and agreed upon before the contract was signed,” Chris says.

“Oh, right,” Sid says and nods and shrugs at me. “That makes sense.”

I fold my arms. “This is the direction in which I have been taken by recent, tragic events.”

“Really?” Chris asks, sarcasm creeping into his voice.

“Are you a writer?” I ask him.

“Well, yes. I mean, I’ve written several novels, but unfortunately… I’ve never actually been published.” He looks meaningfully at Jason, who half-smiles uncomfortably.

“Just…not quite good enough? I ask innocently.

“Actually I think the last couple were really pretty good, but perhaps working in the industry masks people to that.”

There is an extended silence, which Sid breaks. “Perhaps I could represent you?” Chris just looks at him, than flicks through the pages again.

Jason looks around the table, then unclasps his hands. “Well, I think this meeting has reached a…conclusion of sorts. I’m going to organise another meeting with your publicists to take things forward.”

Horror envelops me. “No, not them.”

He laughs as he stands up. “You are funny, Christopher.” But the building already seems colder.

LA Part 2

2008-01-28T11:01:00.000Z

Without wishing to go all Camus on you, my mother died last week. A heart attack. I thought men had heart attacks and women had strokes. So it was a bit of a shock.

LA seems a long time ago now. Since then I’ve been to Berlin and seen Peter Doherty at the airport.

No building in LA seemed to be older than me. The cliché, of course, is that no one in LA walks anywhere. It is true, and I assumed it was because they are all too lazy. But a quick stroll though the Westside tells a different story. The few visible pedestrians are the underclass. They are walking because they cannot afford cars, or because they enjoy hanging out on street corners looking like they might shoot you. Illegal immigrants solicit under bypasses, waiting for pick up trucks to take them to gardening and maintenance jobs. Even though there are thousands of cars flying past every second, the pavements can seem like alleyways at night. I don’t know if the streets are like this because everyone drove everywhere, or if everyone drives everywhere because the streets were like this. Either way, it seems a shame because the sidewalks are so huge.

We ate meals with friends, rode mechanical bulls in shopping malls, smoked potent weed in the desert, had our photographs taken with black bears, counted trash cans on the beach, bought moderately priced jeans in Santa Monica, drank tea in Culver City, cooed over new-born babies, met strangers and drank beer with them, forgot who they were and re-introduced ourselves days later, failed to get friends to take us through Compton, teased cats with laser pointers, played Guitar Hero, watched a double bill of Homicide and the first episode of the new season of the Wire, fell in love all over again in countless tiny moments and stood on a pier as dusk fell and saw the low sun create orange halos around our heads and reveal the secret white hairs on women’s faces.

Then I got a phone call. It certainly put a dampener on the last couple of days of my holiday. The funeral was a predictably grisly affair, featuring awkward conversations with guests only reluctantly invited, stale vol-au-vents and more maudlin drunkenness from a gatecrashing Sid.

Over the next few days I wrote fifty pages and sent them to my editor.

LA Part 1

2008-01-15T17:35:00.000Z

Harper Collins sent me away for a week to help me write. It was the last act of desperate people. Chris, my editor, asked me where I wanted to go.

“LA,” I told him.

He blinked. “I was thinking more like Cornwall, or perhaps Torquay.”

“I find the locale very inspiring. The palm trees bring something out in me.”

“The palm trees are all fifty feet high. No one looks at them.”

“Just to know they’re there though…” His hand twitched towards the phone but stopped. He was wavering. “I’ll be writing non-stop by the poolside.”

“OK,” he sighed, broken. “I’ll set it up.”

“First class?” He reddened further until it seemed something in his face would pop. “Economy then.”

I bought Cheryl a ticket as we have friends out there. I planned to write on the plane, but BA has introduced On Demand movies with a library of about forty films. I had checked in on-line as soon as it became available, refreshing the screen and then snapping up seats in the emergency exit row. I tell them I am willing to help people escape in the event of an emergency, even though I would actually be first out of the door, if I was still sober enough to care.

We drank wine until Cheryl went to sleep, and then, reluctantly, I took out my laptop. A pretty air hostess sat opposite me when it became turbulent and we flirted and I told her I was a writer. She upgraded me to club class. I left Cheryl sleeping as she can get grumpy when woken.

The hostess brought me endless small bottles of wine. My seat flattened out into a bed. There was a man next to me, and it felt a bit odd, as essentially I was lying in bed watching television with another man. He kept watching the same film twenty minutes ahead of me and I couldn’t help but glance over and ruin it for myself. I put the screen away and listened to my iPod. Even when it got turbulent again I was calm. I find that when I’m drinking and listening to good music, I don’t mind the thought of dying as much.

As take-off is the most dangerous part of flying, only when we've reached cruising altitude do I adjust the time on my watch. I wouldn't want to have wasted a minute of the end of my life changing time zones.

The hostess came back and said that my wife had woken up and become distressed when I had disappeared with my bag.

“She can be temperamental,” I explained.

“It was some surprise when the woman sleeping next to you turned out to be your wife. Some of the things we said to each other were inappropriate.”

“She was asleep,” I shrugged. The hostess didn’t come back again and I had to make my way to the snack area and rout around in drawers to find wine and whiskey. Things became a blur. I must have passed out. I hope I did. If not, I don’t want to know what I did for the last six hours of the flight. I wouldn’t say I’m an alcoholic, because people from Harper Collins read this. Although they never click on the ads.

I came to at the baggage claim carousel, standing but hunched over, my head already hot with the encroaching daytime hangover. Cheryl was talking and I hugged her. She pushed me away, holding her nose away from me. But there was a Jacuzzi at the hotel which made up for the trip so far. Well, it did for me. Cheryl had forgotten her swimming costume.

In the room, I told her I thought I could write for hours in the hot tub. “Your heart will boil,” she said, not without hope.

If you would like to read about when I lived in America, you can go here: www.myspace.com/jesenk and read the When Chris Moved To America blogs.

"This book is not exactly a priority for me...”

2008-01-06T17:26:00.000Z

I have learnt to dread visiting the publishing house, which is a shame because it was once a place where all my dreams seemed to have come true.

Lenny, the designer assigned to my book, is what someone could uncharitably call a bearded cockney prig. But I never would, because I am far too nice. He sits at a cluttered desk in a gloomy office as far from the main entrance as possible. I imagine he requested to be located here, and if he didn’t then management hastily moved him. But, as these difficult types so often are, apparently he is good at his job.

He bends over a large sheet of paper with a soft pencil, and at first I think he is sketching useful ideas. Then I see it; a man hanging by his neck, his black tongue lolling out like something I saw on Nothing Toxic. “So, do you have any ideas for the cover?” he asks indifferently.

“Yeah,” I say. “Obviously, it should be something dark and Blade Runner-like, rather than something bright and, I don’t know, The Fifth Element-esque. What do you think, have you read the book?”

He makes a strange, guttural noise, and I am vaguely concerned before he looks up and I realise he is laughing. He even snorts a couple of times.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

His laughter stops suddenly and he bends over the paper again, adding a crowd of bystanders at the execution. “Sorry, mate, nothing personal. But I don’t ever read the books.”

“Just the synopsis, then?” I enquire, bracing myself for a fresh outburst of laughter.

Instead, he just fixes me with a blank stare. “Not as of yet, no.”

“Well, it’s only a page, and it might help.”

“Yeeeeah,” he says absently, as though he’s humouring me. “But go on, mate, go on.”

“Right, I see a sepia-tinged image of a police cruiser, one from the near future-”

“Like in Blade Runner.”

“Well, yeah, but let’s not get too bogged down with that, it was just a reference point. And next to it, or maybe just behind it, a photograph of an agent – black trousers and shirt under a flowing brown cloak – staring back at us, a mini-gun in his hand but not pointing at us. And the photograph has been altered to look more like a drawing, or a combination of the two so we can’t tell whether it’s one or the other. And the blue and red lights of the car, the only non-sepia part of the image, kind of blur outwards and make everything kind of indistinct and foggy.”

A long silence. “Like in Blade Runner.”

I sigh and frown. “Why do I get the impression your heart’s not really in this?”

He sniggers again. “Look, I understand that it’s important to you.”

“Riiiight? Please go on.”

“Don’t take offence, but this book is not exactly a priority for me.”

“Oh. Right.” I say, stunned.

“If your wife was murdered,” he continues in a patronising tone that doesn’t fit his words, “That would be the most important event in your life at that time. But the detective working on his twenty-third murder of the year isn’t going to have any emotion invested in it personally, is he? It’s not possible. Try to understand, mate.” I just look at him, hurt. He doesn’t notice or care. “Besides, I hate this Sci-fi crap. Johnny over there usually does the fantasy bollocks.”

I turn and for the first time notice a small ugly man hiding in the shadows, colouring in a picture of an alien and a robot on a desert planet with five suns. I nod my head but he ignores me.

“That’s his speciality,” Lenny says, raising his voice in Johnny’s direction, “But they want to try him on a soppy romance, which is my forte.” He looks back at me. “I like drawing the tits.”

“Well, you better get yourself together,” I say, trying a new tact, “Because this is a top priority for Harper Collins.”

Lenny laughs again, louder and longer this time, and even Johnny joins in from his corner. “From what I hear, it might never see the light of day.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” I shout, panicked. “What do you mean?”

Lenny is still smiling and doodling. “I heard you weren’t fulfilling your obligations. Heard you weren’t making the necessary changes.”

“Oh they’ll get done,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Don’t you worry. Just get cracking.” My legs feel weak and buckle into a chair.

“And what did you tell Mavis and Pauline?” Lenny asks.

“You’ve seen them?” I blurt out. “Where?”

“Well, they do work here, don’t they?”

“What did they say?”

“Sounds like you’re into some weird shit.”

“Listen, they tricked me. They demanded I tell them something weird so I made something up.”

He holds his hands up. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Haven’t they got some confidentiality clause?”

“They’re not doctors.”

I sit and seethe, ready to go to someone and complain about this bearded cockney prig.

Then he picks up the paper and holds it towards me. “How does this look?” Above the hanging is the front cover of Clear History. It is rough but beautiful. I want to buy him dinner and kiss him.

“It’s fine,” I say, and pretend to check my phone for messages.

Free Counter

Sid has popped round to my Mum's for dinner...

2008-01-01T13:02:00.000Z

...And he's drunk and maudlin on red wine. Not only has he the tenacity to come here on New Year's Day, a family holiday, but he was already on the bus when he called.

"How do you even know where my mother lives?" I ask him when he stumbles through the door, clutching a bottle wrapped in paper.

"You mentioned it once," he says dismissively.

"I don't think I did."

"Sure you did."

Even though he has never met my mother, he moves past her with a brief wave and walks into the kitchen. This could end badly. We follow him. "You've brought wine then?" I say.

"Yes. Where's your opener?"

My mother is taken aback. "Just on the side there. It's a fancy new one Sharon bought me for Christmas. I haven't worked out how to operate it yet."

Sid slides the cork from the bottle in two seconds and throws the contraption back on the counter with the cork still skewered.

"Let me get you a glass," my mum says, opening a cupboard. Sid takes a swig straight from the bottle, and doesn't offer it around. My Mum gives him a glass anyway. "Dinner will be ready soon. Just leftover turkey I'm afraid."

Sid frowns. "Leftover from Christmas?" She nods. "How long does meat keep in the fridge, would you say?"

"I... think it will be OK."

Sid accepts this and fills his glass. At the dinner table, he is unusually quiet. My Mum hates quiet. "I think it's nice you use the bus," she tells him. "It's good for the environment." Sid of course couldn't give a shit about the environment, and is only taking the bus because he doesn't own a car. The fact that he is drunk probably wouldn't stop him.

I don't drive on evenings when I've been drinking, but the mornings are different. When I woke up this morning, Cheryl dressing for work and cursing softly, I had no hangover and smiled. Only when I stood under scalding water in the shower, watching a slug slither into a fold of the curtain to avoid the spray, did I realise how drunk I was. When I cleaned my teeth I couldn't taste the mint toothpaste. When I started to soap myself I gave up, exhausted. In the car, leaning forward to watch for pedestrians with extra vigilance, I had to pull over twice to vomit. I feel better now.

"I'm going to buy a Porsche, like an agent should," Sid says.

"A Porsche?" My Mum says, impressed even though she wouldn't know a Porsche from a Lamborghini. "My son must be making you money!"

"Not a proper one," Sid says. "An old one, like that X Files fella has on Californication. I'm going to keep it dirty and smash one of the headlights out."

"Sid, that character is not supposed to be a role model," I say, watching a lump of margarine melt on my potatoes.

Sid ignores me. "And your son has made me no money."

"Oh," my Mother says.

"The advance barely paid for overheads. But you struggle along, don't you?"

"I suppose so. Still, when the book comes out, you'll both see something then, won't you?"

"Oh, don't get your hopes up, Mrs. Hardy." He drains his glass and pours the last of the wine. "There are hundreds of books released every week. The chances of even getting noticed are small. Especially with a Sci-Fi novel."

I look at my Mum. "Do you see? This is what I'm up against?"

"Yes," she says. "You are a bit negative. Why did you even sign him?"

"Oh, I like the book. I think Christopher has real talent."

"But talent's not enough?"

Sid shrugs. "You never know. Stranger things have happened. But people keep buying the same thing. Last night I saw an ad on the BBC for a new version of Sense and Sensibility. Is it me, or do they just keep making the same costume dramas over and over?"

"Why are you here?" I ask him. "Why are you drunk? In my mother's house."

He looks at me. "I like you," he says.

"Oh."

My mother is unmoved. "Then why are you so unsupportive?"

"It's OK, mum..."

"No, it's my house, as you say, and I'd like to know." She has colour in her cheeks for the first time in a long while. She is almost angry, an emotion I forgot she possesses. Or almost does. "Why don't you work for him?"

"Oh I do, Mrs. Hardy. And I never grumble about the shit I have to shovel. But I'm afraid your son is a temperamental artist." My Mum looks unconvinced. "Believe me, most of them are when it comes to their art. You see, the editor assigned to Christopher's book is asking for some changes to meet the publisher's criteria. Changes that were acknowledged before the deal was signed. But now, for reasons only these writers can make sense of, he is refusing to carry out the alterations, leaving me dealing with worried and frustrated Harper Collins people every day. And if he doesn't pull his finger out, the whole deal could go tits up."

My mother looks at me. "You stupid boy," she says. "What are you playing at?"

"I had no idea," I say. "He didn't tell me."

Sid gulps at his wine. "It's your job to worry about the writing, mine to worry about everything else."

My mother is definitely angry now. "Go home and get writing."

"OK, I will."

"Now. I mean it."

"Right now?"

"Yes. I won't let you throw it away. You owe it to everyone who believes in you, not just yourself."

"Can't I finish my sausages?"

"NOW!"

I get up slowly and walk out, leaving my mother and my agent chatting about my life and work. When I get home, I rearrange my songs on iTunes until Cheryl gets home, and we watch a DVD.

Love Is... always having to apologise

2007-12-22T12:08:00.000Z

Chris, my editor, has my revised draft of the first three chapters on his desk, and so far he hasn't said anything except 'Hello' and 'Sit down'. I don't want him to start talking. I feel like a school kid in the headmaster's office who's done something wrong and has no defence. But he does start talking. Because, ultimately, after arranging the appointment and letting me into his office and facing me across his desk, it would have been weird if he hadn't.

"Right then," he begins. "My first thought upon reading the new draft is that you haven't actually really changed anything. Would you say that's a fair assessment?"

I shift uncomfortably in my comfortable chair. "Well, what is 'fair', really?"

"Sorry?"

"I don't know."

He looks confused, naturally. "I don't understand." I say nothing, so he continues. "Very little actually seems to have changed between this draft and the previous version. A few words here and there, a couple of sentences added, enough to show me that you didn't email the original by mistake. Fundamentally, though, it remains the same. It is almost identical to the one before. The previous draft has almost everything in common to the one I am holding now. Please feel free to jump in at any point."

"I'm happy listening."

"I'd actually like this to be a conversation in which we exchange information relating to your novel-in-progress. That is, I feel, the process most likely to achieve some kind of understanding between us."

"I can see how you'd think that, but really, I have very little to say."

"Yeah, I'm beginning to get a little exasperated, Christopher. I mean, I'm working hard for you, and yet you just seem to be acting quite childish, if I'm being honest."

I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Steady. I'm this close to walking out."

He starts to lose his temper. "Well then talk to me. Why have you not revised the manuscript?"

"I have. There are some changes. I think it's better."

"We sat here only a few weeks ago and discussed in some detail how we could make your book publishable. Your job was to rewrite the first three chapters in a generous amount of time that's already put us behind schedule, and yet you seem to have completely disregarded everything we agreed upon and just hacked in a few sentences almost at random."

"I worked really hard on those sentences..."

"And what about the rest of it? Chapter two, possibly the weakest of the whole lot, was supposed to introduce the themes of surveillance and the impact on daily life, and there's nothing in there."

"It's quite subtle..."

"No it's not subtle. It's non-existent. And the introduction of Beechill, supposedly this heroic, near-mythic veteran crusader, hasn't been touched. It's rubbish. I don't know how it survived your own drafts. He needs to walk out of a burning war zone with deep gashes across his chest holding a little girl in his arms and an old man hanging around his neck. And he doesn't even debrief, he just goes back out on another mission 'cos he's that fucking heroic and near-mythic."

"That's a little..."

He talks over me. "All these character traits that start their arcs haven't been written. They need to start now to make them believable. I'm really frustrated, Christopher."

"I lost my way, perhaps, I admit."

"You seemed enthusiastic when he talked about it."

I rub my neck sheepishly. "I'd stopped listening towards the end. Actually, quite early on. I have a short attention span."

"What, so you were just nodding and pretending to listen?" he asks sarcastically. I shrug. "What, really? Jesus Christ."

"You were writing it down, though, so that was good."

He takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he looks back at me. "OK then. What are we going to do?"

"I'll try again. I've just got to gather the motivation."

"Motivation? Your novel is going to be published by Harper Collins. What more do you need? What the fuck can I offer you?"

"It's just that...I thought the rewrites would be little things. A polish. What you were saying seemed like writing a novel from the beginning again. Fundamental changes would require hundreds of hours."

"Oh I'm sorry. You have something better to do?"

"I've got to work, and spend some time with my wife."

"You've got an advance, haven't you?"

"It's not enough to live on."

"Move into a bed sit. Struggle makes for good art. Just make it work for Christ's sake."

"I will. I've just fallen out of love with writing at the moment."

"Gee. That's bad timing."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sure it's just a phase."

"You better fucking hope it's a phase. You better hope writing starts buying you flowers and sucking your dick 'cos there's a fuck of a lot riding on this book. It's not a game and yet you seem to be playing around."

"I'm not. I'm not."

"What are we going to do then?"

"Let's go through it again."

"You're going to listen to me this time?"

"I swear."

He sighs and opens a pad of A4. He begins to talk. I think about flowers and blow jobs.

First Chapter

2007-12-16T12:14:00.000Z

People seem to want a preview of the novel so here is the first chapter (pre-editor). As you will notice almost immediately, it is a chase sequence. I think it is vitally important to begin every novel with a chase, a plane crash or a sex scene, or people will lose concentration within twenty-eight seconds and get up and walk around the room staring at objects, or switch the television on and watch commercials. My second novel will open with a '69' on a jumbo jet plunging into the ocean after being chased by Muslim extremists.

AGENTS GRAY and Reece shot through the deserted streets, pushing their cruiser hard into the swirls of dust that marked the path of their suspects. In the orange light of the low hanging dawn sun, the clouds thrown up from the filthy streets rendered their tracking system unnecessary. Reece stared ahead impassively, a study of concentration, expertly sending the car from side to side around crates and rusting shopping trolleys and abandoned, burnt-out vehicles, round corners into alleys and cross streets.

Their car was led away from the central district, where thousands of sleek sky scrapers stabbed through the smog into the clouds. Out here, in what had once been the warehouse district of the Old City, the buildings were flat and decrepit - gray blocks of crumbling bricks and stone, a monument to an abandoned way of life.

Gray squinted over at his partner, glad Reece had been so eager to drive that morning. A hangover headache pulsed in his temples. His heartbeat blotched his vision.

They had picked up the call from an overhead observational balloon on a routine sweep, and had been the only unit in the area. The interference from the Insurgents was minimal, almost inconsequential, and there was no profit in the Company chasing them. Still, standards had to be maintained, and an unlicensed vehicle unlucky enough to be tracked by Lumecorp had to be dealt with. Visible crime could not be tolerated, and the criminals knew escape was their only chance of survival.

"Turn it down." Reece spoke without looking away from the road.

Gray looked sharply at his partner. The modern rock station was always blasting from their radio. "What is with you?" he snapped.

"Turn it down." Reece spoke more firmly this time through gritted teeth.

Gray leaned over and punched the power button, and the sound of the revving engine, squealing tires and chips of debris hitting the chassis roared up to replace the music.

Reece had been acting strangely all morning and Gray was in no mood to argue. Usually a relaxed and funny man, Reece had returned from his three week sabbatical distant and taciturn, crisply dressed in full regulation uniform.

"Reece!" Gray had exclaimed when he walked into the locker room an hour ago. He embraced his partner with genuine delight. "How was the holiday?"

"You smell of booze," was his reply. Hardly something a friend should say to you in a place like Lumecorp HQ. A place where microphones and cameras were planted prominently on the walls almost as a source of pride.

Gray masked his surprise and shame with a strained smile. "You're mistaken," he said loudly. "New aftershave. Are you well rested?"

"Very. Thank you." And that had been the end of pleasantries for the morning. Reece didn't relax in the cruiser, and Gray concentrated on his pounding head as he sobered up. He was angry at his friend's comment, but more with himself, and thought it best to let the matter rest until he could be as sure as possible they were not being listened to.

The less attention he drew to himself, the better. The fact was that Gray was slipping. To be an agent was a privilege, providing an opportunity to live with certain freedoms and luxuries, but the Company would only tolerate so much. He was certain he was being monitored, although no one had approached him. He was putting on weight, enjoying his fried food the company discouraged and neglecting the physical training sessions they provided. He had been chosen from many and abused his privilege. He would get a good night's sleep and get himself together.

Reece sped round a tight corner into a narrow back-alley and they had their first visual on the Insurgents. An old Ford maintained years after the company's inevitable demise, in great condition considering its age. Reece eased off the accelerator and activated the standard caution over the loudspeaker.

"You are in breach of Central Territory regulations," the voice droned. "You are under arrest. Pull over and exit your vehicle with your hands in the air."

As expected, the suspects refused the request, and instead ducked into another alley. Reece sped through the turn, scraping the side of the cruiser against the brick wall of an old shop. Gray’s face was pressed up against the passenger door window, sparks and chunks of crumbling brickwork exploding inches from his eyes, the wing mirror smashed off and rattling, trapped between car and wall. Then the car lurched to the side and back on track. Gray returned to the centre of his seat. He shot Reece a look, who appeared not to notice, only keeping his gaze fixed intently on the car ahead. Shaken but unhurt, Gray saw that the corner, though taken recklessly, had brought them closer to the suspects. Deciding to make himself useful, if only in an attempt to keep up with his partner’s new zeal for the chase, Gray unclipped his holster and brought out his handgun, a modestly powerful weapon issued to all street cops and agents.

He opened his window and leaned out far enough to fire a clip into the car in front, shattering the rear window and lights, and managing to send a bullet between the seats and through its windscreen, which exploded outwards rather than simply icing up and blinding the suspects.

As Gray changed clips, the passenger in front suddenly lurched half-way out of the vehicle holding a powerful looking shotgun, which to Gray looked like a home-fashioned hybrid, probably put together from bits of old broken weapons and parts stolen from the Company. It worked well enough, and a first blast ricocheted off the bullet-proofed glass in front of Reece’s face, who barely flinched. The missile was powerful enough to leave a significant chip in the screen, and Reece swerved to make a trickier target as the gun was aimed at the cruiser’s tyres.

The suspect holding the shotgun looked deranged, firing with an utter lack of discipline over the car or into the decaying tarmac. A couple of shells made contact with the cruiser causing minor damage to the car’s body. The man presumably had been firing up the homemade narcotics some of these Insurgents were addicted to. It made them even less of a threat than they could be, but Gray, who battled his own demons, felt he could empathise somewhat. It was a barren existence out here, a struggle for everyday survival. He wondered how often, perhaps in their sober times, these renegades secretly longed for the safety of the city, to accept ignorance for comfort.

The passenger was working his shotgun for some time before it slowly dawned on him that he was out of shells. He ducked in to reload, or perhaps just to throw away the spent weapon.

“Enough,” said Reece. “We’ve given them a chance.”

Concurring, Gray leant out again and aimed his handgun at the driver, through the hole in his headrest into his brain. He squeezed the trigger only for the driver to swerve violently at that moment. The Ford clipped the front end of the burned-out chassis of a car, which slammed against the wall of an old factory and careered back across the street into the agents’ path. At this speed, Reece had little chance to react, and attempted to accelerate out of trouble between the car and the wall it was sliding towards.

Gray, still leaning out of the window, watched with sudden panic as the car skidded into their path, pinned in his position as Reece swerved to one side. Gray was jolted up against the window frame as their car connected first with the wall, and then with the wrecked vehicle a split second later. As their car left the road, Gray became disorientated, then shut his eyes against the pain in his shoulder and back as they were jammed on the car frame. For a moment there was silence, the engine stalled, the tires spinning uselessly in the air, only the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Then just as quickly, a terrific crunch of steel and glass and a bone shaking impact. Gray wrapped his arms over his head, thinking he had been thrown out of the car and fearing it could crush his body. But when there was no tarmac tearing at his skin, he opened his eyes and saw that the car had pivoted in his favour, tossing him back into the vehicle. He was now on his head, watching the road sliding toward him through a cracked screen, sparks flashing up from the tarmac, and the Insurgents ahead, putting distance between them.

The car hit something again out of Gray’s vision, sending them into a spin even as they continued to slide onward. He was thrown across the handbrake into Reece’s chair, head pressed into his chest. Then with a final neck-bracing jolt, the cruiser wedged into an alley entrance.

Immediately, Reece snapped open his seat belt and kicked open the driver’s door, and was out sprinting down the street after the suspects. Gray, who had hardly began clearing his head, fell into the roof when his partner slid out from beneath him. He touched the top of his head tentatively, and came back with blood on his fingers, but not much. Looking up, he became aware of his partner’s absence, then gazed bleary-eyed through the shattered windscreen. It was some seconds before he was able to recognise what he was seeing; the upside-down vision of Reece sprinting into the distance. Uttering a curse and rubbing his neck, he clambered clumsily out of the open driver’s door and picked himself up before making his way along Reece’s trail.

Up ahead, the two rebels were still giggling at their good fortune, the passenger preparing another hit on the crude chemical cocktail cooked up at base. When he caught sight of the cop in his wing mirror, he grabbed at the driver’s sleeve, and pointed in the rear-view. “Yo,” he barked. “He’s catching us, man. He’s catching us.”

The driver pulled his arm away from his friend’s grasp and put his foot down on the accelerator. “Stupid motherfucker,” he murmured uselessly as the car picked up speed.

The passenger continued to gaze into the mirror. “No man, he’s still coming. Go faster.”

The driver pushed his foot harder onto the pedal, already stuck to the floor. He looked at the approaching figure, then at the speedometer, the gauge rising slowly to 60kmh. Impossible, he thought, shaking his head as the fear ate its way into his stomach.

Beside him, the passenger grabbed a small hand gun from the glove compartment and cocked it. The policeman was still gaining on them, arms and legs pumping smoothly, staring forwardly intently, breathing lightly as though on a regular jog.

A few hundred metres behind them, Gray was chasing as best he could, still fighting his way back to full consciousness. His body was battered all over, and he was confusing his hangover for the onset of concussion. He stared at his distant partner, not fully comprehending the scene, just following the urge instilled in the agents since training began, to protect and standby their colleagues.

Reece caught the speeding car just as he reached his limit, something inside him burning, ready to drop. He fumbled for the driver’s door which popped open, the suspects too panicked to lock up. Reece jumped onto the chassis and began yanking the driver out of the open door. The driver looked at him in fear, unable even to fight back, and Reece easily dragged him out by the shoulder, sending the car into a swerve towards the far wall.

The driver slid then bounced, spinning through the air and sending up a sheet of blood, arcing down in splatters onto the concrete. Reece turned his attention back into the car, only to be faced with the nose of the passenger’s handgun. The man hesitated, terror and confusion on his filthy face, and Reece began a move to grab the gun. At that moment, the car smacked against a wall and the passenger’s finger was jerked against the trigger. Reece felt the impact in his arm, and although there was no pain he was unable to keep his grip on the door frame, and he fell backwards, sliding on the road as he fought to keep his head up off the ground.

Gray, his mind clearer, watched in alarm as his friend hit some crates, stopping his roll. Although his uniform provided protection, it had been a terrible fall. But almost immediately, Reece was up again, sprinting after the car that was now swerving out of control, the passenger reaching over for the steering wheel, grabbing it, but unable to slow the vehicle. The brick wall of an abandoned factory loomed, and the car crunched into it, stopping unceremoniously, steam flooding from the crushed radiator.

Reece slowed his run to a jog, then approached the car with his gun drawn, holstering it again after looking into the smoking frame. The passenger had flown forward with the impact, smashing his head on the wall. There was little of it left on his shoulders.

Gray had reached the driver and slipped in his blood, then felt his pulse and registered nothing. Blood flowed from underneath the body’s torn clothes, and most of the exposed skin had been separated from the muscles. He ran on towards his partner, who was walking away from the wreckage, fingering his radio, then turning his attention to the wound on his arm. Looking confused and in a state of mild shock, Reece gazed quizzically at the torn flesh, then began twisting violently at his shoulder. Gray approached, ready to shout at Reece to stay calm, that he would call HQ, then stopped in his tracks, staring as Reece pulled his arm away from his body, through the sleeve, exposing a neat round finish at the shoulder end with metal wires protruding through the bone and sinew. He sank to his knees, still looking at the arm, then prodded at the open shoulder end, causing the fingers to close and open again. His brow furrowed further, and he looked up to meet his friend’s gaze.

Struggling to make sense of the situation, Gray instinctively glanced into the smashed car, noting the corpse, then stepped back towards Reece, thinking about rumours he’d heard but now knew were true, when Reece began to convulse, rolling onto his back and kicking out his feet. Gray rushed to embrace his shaking partner, screaming into his radio for medics, for backup, any help, as Reece began frothing at the mouth and gripping his one hand tight enough to draw blood as fingernails punctured his palm, and Gray’s head was a rushing mess of confusion and panic.

2007-12-07T12:31:00.002Z

Some of you may have noticed that the previous post originally disappeared hours after being uploaded. This was due to the threat of legal action from certain parties. However, after reviewing our position, we have decided to make the post available again.

"Where's that cunt of a woman you left your family for..?"

2007-12-07T12:31:00.001Z

It isn't the nicest, cleverest or most diplomatic thing to say to my father, especially as I had promised myself not to spoil the day for everyone, but whenever I see his condescending judgemental face I just want to punch him.

We both redden slightly. "She's been dead for twelve years, Christopher," he says with a naked, aching sadness that pricks the backs of my eyeballs. But he'll forgive me, because he is just embarrassed enough not to try to justify his actions all those years ago.

After a shocked silence, my sister, Sharon laughs nervously. "You two," she says, as if we're playfully mocking each other's petty foibles. I take her cue and grin as I do to my brother when we are involved in the minor squabbles that involved daily violence when we were kids.

"Well, cheers anyway," I say clinking his beer bottle with mine.

Sharon insists on these family get togethers twice a year or so. I never talk to any of them otherwise. And when my sister does call me to put the date in my diary, I always stare at the name on my phone's caller ID for a few seconds, wondering who the hell Sharon is.

Cheryl can't get her head around this, as she loves her family more than anything, quite possibly more than me, and yet I have stolen her away from them, imprisoning her in a London flat with a slug problem. Ealing stopped being cool for her after four and a half months. Even though we have started drinking Polish beer to fit in with the locals, neither of us feel part of any community.

My mother is the only member of my blood relatives I see with any regularity, and that is because she lives in Shepherds Bush. She's alright, my Mum. I like her in small doses.

We waste an hour away and then my sister serves up dinner. I watch my brother Brian eating and feel slightly sick. He puts too much on his fork and scrapes the food across his cheek with every mouthful. He goes through an absurd number of red napkins and they pile up next to him as reminders of something more significant. While he eats he looks at nothing but his food, staring in silence and pushing his wire frame glasses up his nose with the knuckles of his knife hand. He has been beaten into submission, first by my father and now by life. He was there with me when it all happened and yet he isn't standing with me now. I hate him for it.

And then, suddenly terrified of being like him, I cut into the dinner conversation. "Last night I dreamt that one of my teeth was coming loose. It was such a cliche that I was able to wake myself up, disgusted with my subconsciousness."

This comment is acknowledged by no one, and when a suitable amount of awkward moments have passed, familiar conversation resumes. Current topics: The X Factor (this is a constant), the Take That and Spice Girls reunion tours, I'm A Celebrity..., the Evil of Pete Doherty, how if you rotate your right foot clockwise and then draw a '6' with your right hand your foot will change direction, text messaging and the Teddy Bear Row Teacher. I have nothing to say. Cheryl holds her own, and while she tells me she is just being polite, she has a suspiciously encyclopaediac knowledge of reality shows.

Afterwards, spaced out on sofas in front of the television, stealing glances at our watches and fending off requests from young children to play with them, my father gets his revenge by making me feel worthless again. Although I shouldn't have asked, faux-innocently, "What do you think of my novel?"

"Haven't read it," he says immediately.

"Really?" I ask. "Well, you've only had it, ooh, eighteen months."

"Science Fiction isn't really my cup of tea," he sniffs.

"Futuristic thriller," I correct him.

He waves a dismissive hand. "Aliens and other worlds and all that nonsense."

"You should read it," Cheryl says. "It's really good."

My father turns to Brian. "Have you read this book?" Brian looks up, startled. He nods. "And what did you think?"

Brian shrugs. "It's alright," he manages.

"My family," I announce to Cheryl.

"Are you staying tonight?" Sharon asks me.

"No, I have to work early tomorrow."

My father looks at me, feigning surprise. "I'd have thought that one of the perks of being a successful writer was getting up when you want."

"I'm working at Bid TV," I tell him. "I'm a cameraman, remember?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were a big shot author."

I swallow my anger. "It's not out for a year," I manage.

He waves another hand. "You'll never make it. Get a proper job, my boy. None of this shopping telly rubbish. Get a career."

"What, work in the same office for forty-five years? Do you know how difficult it is to get a novel published?"

"When I was your age I owned a house and was supporting a wife and three children. You don't know the meaning of hard work."

"You don't know the meaning of support," I say somewhat nonsensically, and get up to leave.

"Don't be a damn fool," he says.

"Don't be a total fucking tedious, deceitful gnarly old wanker," I say, and we leave.

It'll be OK. Things heal. We're family.

"You’ve written a sci-fi novel. That’s just not sexy..."

2007-11-24T21:43:00.000Z

The publicist and marketer assigned to me are horrible crones with pointed beaks for noses and beady slits for eyes. They are hideously ugly and evil and their personal hygiene is questionable. They won’t mind me saying this because we have agreed I should be honest in this blog.

I’m sitting at a large table with them at Harper Collins. They look at me like birds of prey studying a vole in a field. “So, I hear it’s going to take over a year to get my book out,” I say.

“That’s very standard,” Pauline tells me.

“Really?” I say sarcastically. I reach for my water glass and send it spinning across the table, big drops of water leaping out and scattering themselves across the wood. I manage to grab it with both hands before it topples, and bring it to my mouth like a model in a Cup-a-Soup commercial. They look at me as if they knew I was going to do that.

“Yes,” Mavis says. “We need time to build a buzz about you. No one knows who you are right now. We need to change that.”

“Well, just tell ‘em,” I suggest. “A quick phone call, job done. A day at most.”

“Tell who?” Pauline asks.

“Don’t know,” I admit. I reach for my glass and take another sip with excruciating slowness. “The press?”

“There’s a lot of press out there,” Pauline says. “Do you know how many books are released every week?”

“Not my problem,” I say, trying a new tact. “It’s up to you to let people know I’m the next big thing. I’ve written a great book and it’s going to blow people away.”

“We have to be realistic,” Mavis says. “If we tell people that every author we have is the greatest writer since Hemmingway then they’re going to get bored very quickly. They get told that every week as it is.”

“Not every author,” I say meekly. “Just me. Worry about me.”

“We have twenty writers to look after,” Pauline says.

“So? What can you do for me?”

“Well actually, we wanted to hear your ideas.”

“Mine?”

“Authors are expected to do a lot of the publicity themselves, I’m afraid. If you want to sell you’ve got to put yourself out there. Phone local radio stations, print up flyers for appearances, go to reading groups.”

I’m aghast. “I want to do multi-page spreads in broadsheet weekend supplements. I want to go on Mayo in the afternoon.”

They look at each wearily. “First time authors don’t really get that level of publicity.”

“What about Zadie Smith?”

“Phenomena like that are rare.”

“Look at me though. I’ve got a face to grace magazine covers. I’m a happening young thing. I’m the new Alex Garland.”

“Well, you’re not really young, I’m afraid.”

“And you’re not as good looking as Alex Garland…”

“Or Zadie Smith…”

“And, well, you’ve written a sci-fi novel. That’s just not…sexy.”

We look at each other in silence for a moment. “We could call it…a futuristic thriller,” I suggest.

“Even so,” Mavis says. “With a year we may be able to make something happen. Besides, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of re-writes to do.”

“That could take a year anyway,” Pauline adds.

I get up from my chair and lie on the leather sofa against the window.

“Are you stressed?” Pauline asks.

“Yes.”

“Just relax.” They pull up chairs next to me and Mavis strokes my head. “We can help you. Part of our job is to make sure the writers are happy. We can’t have you all conflicted. Tell us something dark about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Come on,” they coax, “There must be something. We’ve heard it all. We can help you if you unburden yourself.”

“I have a fantasy…”

“Yes?”

“I fantasise about being covered in napalm and burning to death.”

“I see. What else?”

“I wonder if I held a lit match under my tongue would it sizzle.”

“Sizzle?”

“The spit.”

“Right.”

“I’d like to sleep with three groupies at once.”

“Sexual matters aren’t our forte.”

“Well, the napalm thing was specifically on my genitals. I didn’t say that at the time.”

“Close your eyes and relax.”

When I awake they have gone. No one can get hold of them on the phone. Nothing is resolved. They know too much.

"That's why I want my book to sell..."

2007-11-13T17:10:00.000Z

I live in a ground floor flat in Ealing Common between two of the loudest households in Britain and below a young couple whose chief preoccupation appears to be dropping heavy objects on the floor.

Cheryl and I are sitting in our living room sipping wine and straining to hear our television above the cacophony surrounding us. DVDs seem to be mixed with the dialogue approximately three times quieter than the music and sound effects, and as the plot unfolds on The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin and I edge the volume slowly upwards to a comfortable level, suddenly Reggie imagines his mother-in-law as a hippopotamus and the bassoon goes ‘wah-wah’ and the audience erupts in deafening laughter, the room shakes and the baby upstairs wakes up and screams. Oh, did I mention the baby upstairs? He’s one and he likes to run around and bang on windows. And, of course, he has been blessed with the dropping-heavy-objects-on-the-floor gene.

The man to our north owns ten records. Not ten different albums, you understand, but ten songs. And he is immensely proud of them. So much so that even on a November evening when it gets dark at four and dips below freezing shortly afterwards, he has his back doors open, singing along in broken English to his tunes. This way we can hear it throbbing through the wall and through our poorly insulated patio doors.

He always opens with The Animals’ 'House of the Rising Sun’. This is also the ring tone on his phone. So sometimes we have it playing twice simultaneously, at different stages of the song. Next along is ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You,’ a song played so often that terrible summer of its sixteen week stay at number one that everyone in the country except for him still reaches for the closest sharp object and begins to stab themselves absentmindedly whenever they hear Bryan Adams’ ghastly crooning.

Following these two, always in the same order, is ‘Civil War,’ ‘Comfortably Numb,’ and a return for Adams with ‘Summer of ’69.’ You can probably guess one or two of the remainder. Thanks to the way I consume these songs, I know every thunk, rattle and scratch of the bass lines, but little of the high guitar notes. His kid uses our fence for football practise and shouts in Arabic. His wife is fat and English. His daughter is a loud, surly teenager and appears to be Australian. It is deeply confusing.

And to our south lies Party Central. We are not sure whether it is inhabited by ten people or one very popular couple. Either way, it is rammed every night with braying, shrieking youths. They do not play music or watch television, merely scream and cheer for hours. I have never heard anyone have so much fun, although the alarmingly vast quantities of dope they smoke may go some way towards explaining it.

Naturally I am far too cowardly to confront these people directly. Occasionally, usually towards the end of the wine, I may suddenly leap out of the chair and slam my fist against one or both of the walls, which appears to go unheard or just unheeded.

Tonight, Cheryl watches me sink back onto the sofa, clutching my throbbing hand and weeping gently. “I don’t think that achieves anything, Christopher.”

“I know,” I moan, frowning like a five-year-old.

The episode finishes and we sit in silence for a few depressing minutes, listening to our neighbours having conscience-free revelry.

“This is why I want my book to sell,” I tell Cheryl. “I don’t want to be famous. I don’t want to be excessively rich. I just want a detached house in the country where we can’t hear anyone else and no one can hear us. Everyone should be entitled to that. Why do they make us all live on top of one another?”

“Some people like living in a community,” Cheryl suggests.

I shudder. “I don’t ask for much. I don’t want celebrity friends, I don’t want to be a media whore, renewing our vows in Hello for a few grand.”

Cheryl tilts her head as if she thinks this might be worth considering. “No celebrity friends? What about Pete Doherty?”

She knows my weaknesses. “OK, maybe just Peter. My feelings towards him are conflicting, though. I want to help him, but I also want to do drugs with him.”

“Can I be friends with the Mighty Boosh?” Cheryl asks.

“Both of them?”

“Yes,” she says, putting her head on my chest.

“OK,” I concede. Party Central screams, the baby drops a piano and ‘House of the Rising Sun’ begins again. “I’d like a workspace at the bottom of the garden.”

“Away from the house?” Cheryl asks. I nod and she smiles. “That would be great.”

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"You're too old to be a young author..."

2007-11-05T11:01:00.000Z

My agent, Sid, says this to me over the phone as I'm crashed out on my sofa, shattered and eating a duty free-sized Toblerone. I have called him for a pep talk, a pick-me-up from the man who believes in me more than anyone else alive because his pay check depends upon it.

Sometimes, it seems, he forgets this. I am merely talking aloud about my dream of being included in some magazine article called 'Britain's Best Young Authors' when he cuts me off mid-sentence. "You're too old to be a young author."

There is a stunned silence on my end and the sound of running water at his.

"Are you... flushing your toilet?" I ask when I recover the power of speech.

"No," he replies after an unconvincing pause. The water stops with a glug.

"I'm only thirty years old."

"Officially that's the cut-off point. Once you're out of your twenties you're a latecomer, if anything."

"Where did you read this 'official' ruling?"

The sound of a packet of crisps being torn open. "Well, perhaps not official. It's common sense though, isn't it? Perhaps the author of the article will have a different, more generous scale. Which magazine is it again? I'll give them a call, see what I can do."

"No, it's not real. I want to be in the next one. They have them quite regularly, don't they?"

"I don't know," he tells me through a mouthful of savoury snacks. "Do you fancy a pint?"

Perhaps we've become too friendly. At first I was pleased when Sid wanted to meet up for a few drinks on weekday afternoons, impressed with his spare-time generosity over evening dinners in Soho steakhouses. But after a couple of Saturday nights out during which my own drunkenness was ruined by Sid's shambolic, leering, abusive intoxication, then an intimate, confessional dinner with my wife Cheryl cooking at home, I quickly realised Sid was just lonely.

He refuses to talk about his other clients, and I suspect, sadly, there are none. And now that the book deal is signed he has relaxed and forgotten his job description.

Cheryl, of course, is great. All fledging writer's spouses are great because they allow most of their precious togetherness time to be spent apart while the writer struggles to yank this monster out of himself and onto a page on top of holding down a job that actually pays the bills. She rubs my head, and reads the words I write before anyone else, but she cannot change things in my creative life. Sid can. Sid should. He is paid to understand the business and make me feel positive.

The reason I am slumped on the couch in the spare bedroom/office, stuffing comfort food into my greedy mouth, is something he appears unconcerned about. I met with my editor, Chris, as he has now had a chance to "Study the manuscript" and "Take some notes."

He pulled some pages from a drawer in his Collins office and they thudded onto his desk next to my novel. They looked almost as long.

"How many copies have you made?" I asked him numbly.

"I am known for my thoroughness," he said. "At the front I've bullet pointed a summary of areas to work on."

I scanned the list. "But this is a complete re-write," I tried not to squeal. "I thought you liked the book."

"Oh, we do, we do. It's just that we think it could be even better."

I couldn't speak.

"It's a competitive market," he continued. "We need to make each product we put out as crowd-pleasing as possible." He leaned forward. "We think you're very talented, and we want to make sure you succeed. There's nothing more heart-breaking than seeing someone with potential failing on his first book because his editor didn't do the best he could for him. This is all standard procedure. Your agent should have gone through this with you."

I managed a bitter chuckle. "Well, this will take me months. Months. Surely we don't have time to get all this done."

"Oh, we've got about a year."

"What? A year? I've been telling acquaintances to look out for it in W H Smith."

He sucked breath in through his teeth. "Tough to get into Smith's. Tough."

"But why does it take a year?"

"You'll be surprised. Let me arrange a meeting for you with publicity."

"Sid," I say over the phone. "I've already started working on the second book. Now I have to write the first one all over again."

"There is some good news," he says.

"What? Tell me."

"No one knows anything about you. We can always lie about your age."

"Most books sell nothing..."

2007-10-28T11:04:00.000Z

This is what my agent, Sid, chooses to say to me on the way to our first post-contract signing meeting with the publisher. I don't know whether he is playing devil's advocate to keep his own hopes down, or whether he is genuinely bracing me for inevitable faliure, but either way it seems a strange time to tell me this.

But then there are many strange things about Sid. I cannot fathom how he managed to get Harper Collins even to read my novel, let alone agree to publish, but it took just a couple of months from when we signed our little agreement. I can only guess he has some suction with an executive there, a compromising photograph perhaps, or secrets too dark to contemplate, but when he told me the news I laughed at him. He was unfazed. He expected me to expect him to fail.

I had been rejected by countless literary agents before I approached him. Well, not countless. Twenty-seven. Which is still a lot. And I had really given up hope. The second book will be better, I thought. Patience. And when he wrote back to me asking to see the whole manuscript, that he had liked the synopsis and first few chapters, I had wondered what was wrong with him. 'No one else likes it,' I thought, 'So he must be desperate.' But so was I, and I went to his pokey little office on Regent Street.

"Why don't you move somewhere cheaper and get a bigger office?" I asked him.

"It's Regent Street," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Unfortunately my business is all about perception. That's why agents all fuck beautiful women and drive Porsches."

"Do you drive a Porsche?"

"No," he admitted. "I take the bus."

I looked at him, slouched on a beaten up sofa dressed like Bilbo Baggins, and decided not to inquire about the women.

Even now, done up in his best suit, he still looks scruffy somehow, like an adult William Brown after a long school day. But he seems sober at least.

I am introduced to my editor, Chris - we have the same name! Oh how we laugh, "That should make things easy, or maybe confusing," etc... - and then we sit around a table with a few other Collins people whose names and titles I don't listen to because I'm focusing on my own conduct.

It's mostly a blur because I'm not good in meetings. I trail off and think about other things, like whether the final "controversial" episode of the Sopranos is going to disappoint me, or how smug I am at having discovered Black Kids before any of my friends, and then 'Hurricane Jane' is looping through my head.

Luckily Sid does most of the talking, and I am impressed by his authoritative tone, even though everyone can surely see it's a bluff. Then the suit who seems like the main Harper guy, a good-looking bloke in his forties (hey, I'm a writer, we observe these things about everyone we meet, we can't help it) turns to me and tells me again how much they all like the book. "So, are you working on a follow up?" he asks.

I nod. "I'm about a thirteenth of the way through it."

"A thirteenth, huh? That's great news."

"I mean, it's not a follow up per se, but, you know, a second book."

"Not a follow up?" The Collins men share concerned looks.

"Well, it's not connected. But it's still a novel written by me. So it's a follow up in that sense. Just not a sequel or anything."

The head honcho gives me a stern smile. "Sci-fi readers like to get involved in a different world over many years. They like a whole series of books set in and expanding the same universe. Like the Discworld books. Then latecomers to the series will go back and buy the earlier volumes."

There are murmurs of agreement and then Sid, curse him, says to them "I told him that."

"I don't see myself as a sci-fi writer," I tell them. "It's just my first book happens to be set in the not too distant future."

The head guy blanches. "So the second book isn't even the same genre?"

"Well, no." Another murmur goes up. "This book is just a story like any other," I plead. "I'm not Philip K Dick. It's not set in the year three billion on the planet Zarg. I'm a writer."

"In this day and age we need someone we can market. It's difficult for readers to recognise what they like if authors skip around genres."

"I'm sure Christopher can come up with something," Sid says.

Then there's a long silence while we all look at each other. Then the head guy says "Well, have a think about it."

So I was almost happy for a few weeks, which is a record. Now I'm a sci-fi writer, apparently. Which is still better than not being a writer.

"I think they like you," Sid tells me. Sid's full of shit.